


Speak of the Devil

by PenelopeGrace



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, BAMF Hermione Granger, F/M, I'm going to put this:, P.S. I like reviews and I can be (hint hint) bribed by them, Post Harry Potter, Some Humor, There may be a few other familiar faces, also i have to include, also the devil has a remarkable face that looks sooooo similar to Harry Potter, and he absolutely hates it, even though i have four fics that needs to be updated too, humor?, i blame nerysdax, idk - Freeform, that's why, the devil creates a punishment for tom, why am i writing this, wink wink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeGrace/pseuds/PenelopeGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After dying, Tom Riddle is unfortunately forced to become the guardian angel for a mudblood. But not just any mudblood. It has to be Harry Potter's mudblood. So begins the disastrous, wild, and amusing (on Hermione Granger's end) adventure of a petulant Dark Lord and one of the greatest trouble magnets/heroes in all of the Wizarding World's history.</p><p>Semi-on/off hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want you all to know that this is a slow, slow fic. It's going to take a very long time to finish it, because it's my senior year in high school and I'm doing a shitload of AP courses and preparing for a whole load of crap. College. Groan. University. Groan. Fanfiction is my only source of freedom, isn't it?
> 
> I was inspired by a post made by Nerysdax's (Nerys) tumblr. See it here:
> 
> http://nerysdax.tumblr.com/post/139304343222/what-do-you-think-would-happen-if-after

In the days after his defeat against Harry Potter, Lord Voldemort lies on an empty plane stretching out in endless direction. Curled around his legs, he could not remember the last time he has ever felt the coldness like this. He barely remembers the time he has spent here, but it feels like eternity. All he wants is a shred of warmth, and he could nearly hear the German planes flying overhead—over the orphanage itself.

It seems to be the middle of eternity of a numbing cold winter when he hears it. The careful weight of someone’s boots making their way across the floor. He wishes to turn his eyes to the noise, but he’s so weak. Too weak. It’s almost as if there aren’t enough pieces of him here—as if he’s not quite alive nor dead. Just somewhere in between.

The man clears his throat. “Fascinating.” He snaps his finger, and Voldemort finds himself suddenly in a sort of study room.

It’s warm again.

And he has clothes on.

He is sitting on a wooden chair. Uncomfortable, yes. But he has his legs back. Not those ugly shells of what used to be. He even pats them to make sure it isn’t an illusion.

He reaches up to find hair.

Hair? Real hair?

“Yes, it is all so sudden to find all of the pieces of your soul back together,” remarks a man. “But please, go ahead. Keep touching yourself. It’s not as if I don’t have anything else to do.”

He glances up to the man and flinches in horror. “Harry Potter?” He futilely reaches into his pocket for his wand. Nothing at all.

Perhaps he should try strangling him? But it is such a crude, Muggle way.

The doppelganger of Harry Potter with two sharp horns rising from the top of his head along with a snake wrapped warmly around his neck frowns. Strangely, he has an American accent. “Why do people assume I’m Harry Potter? There is a difference between us. Harry Potter has escaped Thanatos twice. Thanatos works for me and collects souls of the departed. Unfortunately, Thanatos has never caught Potter correctly.”

Voldemort determines that the man is indeed not Harry Potter. For one, he is not angry and pitiful as Potter. For another, he does not possess a scar on his forehead. He tells him, “I can kill him for you. I mean. . . Catch him.”

The doppelganger pretends to consider it. Drawing out a dramatic pause, he answers, “No.”

Voldemort’s fingers twitch. Perhaps he could borrow a little technique from the Muggles. But no one shall ever hear of this. He stands up and then is suddenly pulled back by a large python. His hands and wrists trapped to his body, he hisses, “What are you doing?”

The doppelganger gives a little smirk. “Sorry, Tom, but snakes don’t obey you. Heir of Slytherin, blah, blah, blah. None of that matters here.”

He ignores the feel of the python wrapped around his abdomen. Snarling at him, he demandingly asks, “Who are you?”

He strokes the snake around his neck. “You have heard of me before. I’ve gone by many names, and I’ve been told in several stories. The snake in the garden. The fallen archangel. The beloved one. The brightest in the sky. The Morningstar. Lucifer. Cast away from Heaven and sent to rule Hell instead.”

“The devil,” rages Voldemort. He narrows his eyes.

“Correct.” A pause. The devil strokes his chin. He brushes invisible dust off of his brown leather jacket, drawing out time and deliberately wasting it. “Lots of terrible things you’ve done. Tom Marvolo Riddle. I’ll come up with the perfect punishment for you. Murder. Murder. Murder. Attempted murder.” The devil lazily counts on his finger the crimes of one Tom Riddle Jr.

Voldemort wonders if a certain curse could be used on the devil himself. Maybe. He hopes so. He would like nothing more than watching him writhe under pain. How much could Lucifer withstand?

“Oh, theft. More theft. Desecration of a precious artifact. Actually, add some more charges to that. Lovely. Leaving you there in a sort of Limbo was thought to be too good for you. You did nothing hilarious or entertaining other than just lie there and sobbing. So we have to up the punishment.” The devil rubs his hands together in pure delight. “What should your hell be like?”

Voldemort opens his mouth.

The devil wags a finger at him. “No, no, no. That was rhetorical question. I don’t want you to give me your idea.” He looks upwards at the ceiling—at the sky. “Hmm. . . What would. . .? Ah, I know. Eternal torture.”

Voldemort’s finger twitches. But he keeps his face as empty as possible.

The devil muses. “Nah. Too dull. Not a fitting punishment for you. How about reliving your crimes over and over and over again for eternity?”

The Dark Lord has to keep a smile off his face. Now that is something he could work with. It would be boring, yes, but he could keep himself amused by watching his old murders and such. To see the fears on his filthy father’s—

The devil snorts. “No. You might actually enjoy that one.”

He finds himself testing the python’s hold on him. The devil will find himself dead. He will do the spell wandlessly. But he has to free his hands first.

He could almost feel sorrow for the snake he might have to kill.

“No, no, no. Eureka!” The devil smiles with a lethal, half-mad grin—which is something Voldemort always sees in his victim’s minds just before they die. “I got it! You hate Muggleborns. You tried to kill them all, right? Because you were. . . Oh, I don’t know. It’s not as if I keep track of your life, but you hate them like crazy. Tried to murder them all.”

He can already feel where this is going. Almost.

“Here’s your punishment. You get to protect the Muggleborns.” He snaps his finger, his eyes wide with excitement. “But no, that’s not good enough. Let’s make it a little more fun. More humiliation.”

It would be far more fun to watch the devil choke on his own tongue, Voldemort thinks.

“You will be the guardian angel for the very Muggleborn, who is instrumental in your defeat.” He crackles in pure evilness. “Hermione Granger.”

With that sentence, Voldemort lurches up.

And he falls flat on his side as a red-orange serpent wraps around his right foot and trips him.

The devil suddenly appears above him. He tilts his head in wonder and scratches his head. “Why do they always do that? Always trying to attack me? It’s not as if you can kill me. Thrasher!”

A creature which somewhat resembles a House elf—Voldemort is not sure whether or not it actually is an elf, because it wears a tiny black Muggle suit—bows to the devil. “Yes, sir?”

“Set the arrangements for Tom Marvolo Riddle. Deliver him to Hermione Jean Granger’s door, will you?” The devil walks over Voldemort’s torso in black leather boots with a casualness not befitting one who is the presence of the Dark Lord. He disappears from the Dark Lord’s sight.

“Yes, sir.” Thrasher bows again. Then he turns his bright black eyes of emptiness onto Voldemort. “Mr. Riddle. Let’s make you a guardian angel.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue may be off, because it has been years since I've read the exact words of Harry Potter. (Also, I have completely ignored whatever happened in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Because... that's no canon in my eyes.)
> 
> Also, I have a revelation to make. I'm an American. I'm not British. Therefore, I will have some words that are American and will sound funny coming out of the British characters' mouths.
> 
> Also, I'm using I., II., and III. for sections instead of splitting up using asterisks. Fanfiction.net prevents asterisks for some reason, so I don't bother using them here.

_I._

Wrinkly face. Shortness. An inability to smile. Sadistic.

That’s what Voldemort has seen of Thrasher.

What an odd name. Thrasher. Voldemort wonders if that has anything to do with the verb, “thrash.” If so, he has an inkling of why Thrasher is called Thrasher. It also fits the puzzle of why Thrasher would be associated with the devil.

Thrasher summons a large mirror, and it hovers in front of the Dark Lord. For the first time, the Dark Lord is able to see what the devil has done to him now. A simple robe covers up his body. Black hair sprouts from his head. Eyebrows arch over his eyes, and he is suspicious of the return of hair in other places. His nose—not the snake’s nostrils for a nose—is. . . human.

Too human.

“Mr. Riddle,” says Thrasher.

“You will address me as my proper name, Lord Voldemort.”

Thrasher gives him an amused smile. “No.” Pause. “Tom, I think that is the first order of business. You will no longer go by Lord Voldemort. Instead, you are Tom Marvolo Riddle to Hermione Granger. If you ever need to have physical form which could be seen by all, you will look like this.” He snaps his finger.

A small fog starts from the top of Voldemort’s head and down to his feet. Stunned, he touches his greasy black hair—which brings back memories of a certain Potion Master. His pale skin has changed into a dark, dark tan. His eyes sparkle with fleck of green and yellow.

“Your human identity is. . .” He dramatically pauses with glee. “Thomas. . . Smith.”

Voldemort stands quite still. Too still.

He quietly realizes that it isn’t bad. Then he makes the mistake of looking straight into Thrasher’s eyes—which holds a sadistic quality resembling Bellatrix at her finest hours.

“You are an American, who recently moved from Los Angeles, California. You conveniently have a great-uncle, whose name is Thrasher Smith. That is me. I will be keeping track of your progress and your work as a guardian angel.”

He wants to kill that person who came up the name, “guardian angel.”

“You were worked for _Witch Weekly_ for a year and a half. You even occasionally wrote an article about gossip”—Voldemort’s stomach turns in horror—“involving the Potters and speculating the nature of Ginny and Harry’s relationship. Above average but not outstanding scores on your NEWTs. You have recently moved from _Witch Weekly_ and joined the ranks of secretaries at the Ministry of Magic. You will start work on Tuesday at eight o’clock sharp. If you don’t go to work. . .” Thrasher gives him a smug look. “I will enjoy teaching you.”

Voldemort almost passes out.

Secretary. It’s even worse than working in retail.

Someone is going to. . . order him—him, the Dark Lord, the Lord Voldemort, the Heir of Slytherin—around as if he is nothing but one of those common wizards.

“As a guardian angel, you have rules,” informs Thrasher, his face becoming even more delighted. “You may only act in self-defense of Hermione Granger. You can use magic non-offensively. The Unforgivable Curses and a few certain dark curses will not work. If you try them, an interesting effect will happen. You can’t reveal your true identity of Tom Marvolo Riddle to anyone. If you attempt to reveal the truth, I believe you will talk to everyone in nothing but Spanish for the rest of the day. The consequences will only grow bigger and bigger the more you attempt to test us.”

The Dark Lord seethes quietly to himself. He is going to test them.

Just a tiny bit. Just to see and have his curiosity satisfied.

Thrasher adds, “Oh. And here is your wand.” Thrasher presents it to him in a black wand box.

The Dark Lord—with as much dignity as possible—slowly takes it away from him. He opens the box and pulls out his old wand. The phoenix core. He could feel it greeting him after all this time. A warm glow warms up the rest of his bones, and it truly feels as if he is whole once more.

As soon as Thrasher’s back is turned, he tries one curse. “ _Imperio_!” Nothing seems to happen to his wand, but he could tell that _something_ has happened. He makes an unfortunate choice of looking into the mirror and nearly shriek with horror at his hair. All of his hair.

They are pink.

Thrasher turns around, sees the new hairstyle, and grin. “What were you expecting? You didn’t think it would work, did you?”

Maybe he was hoping it would. Just a smidge of hope.

“Now, what should I do to punish you?” Thrasher’s eyes turn towards a quill on the devil’s desk, and he snaps his finger and summons some parchment. “Yes. This will be good.”

_II._

Six years after the death of Voldemort, Hermione Granger sits in her cubicle and writes out the date to begin her long, long report on the crime rates in a rural town of Scotland. She neatly prints, _June 14, 2004_ , in clear letters and digits with a snowy white quill. She’s a team leader of one of the many Magical Law Enforcement Patrols squads—who apprehend less dangerous criminals. It’s interesting work, but she wishes that she could spend time with Ron. She pulls all-nighters every few days or so much to his disappointment.

“Granger,” says her second, Kathryn “Kath” Jimenez. She knocks the top of her cubicle and leans towards Hermione’s face. Her popcorn-scented hair seems to be curling out of its braid and towards Hermione’s own face. “I heard from Human Resources that we’re getting a rookie tomorrow at eight o’clock. Five O.W.L.s. But here’s the good part. Get this. He used to be a writer for _Witch Weekly_.” She snickers. “A writer. For a gossip column. I even got one of his articles.”

Kath passes a torn article towards Hermione, planting it right over her report. Clearly pleased with herself, she beckons. “Go on. Read it.”

Hermione Granger takes one little look at her quill. She has to write this report. . . But one little break wouldn’t hurt, right?

**KALINA BACHEVA AND VIKTOR KRUM SPECULATION: A ROMEO AND JULIET FORBIDDEN LOVE STORY?**

**_The 28-year-old Bulgarian seeker of the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team has been lately spotted with Kalina Bacheva, the daughter of two Bulgarian politicians. Kalina’s father, a current candidate for Minister of Magic in Bulgaria, has no comment on the arrangement when asked by those at_ Witch Weekly _. However, a close source in the political campaign remarks that Kalin Bacheva is “severely displeased and disappointed” in his daughter’s newest suitor. The source furthermore adds, “Kalin is not an easy man to please. He is fiercely protective of his daughter.”_**

**_Time will tell if Kalin Bacheva will dissuade the seeker. Whispers of deceased rivals and candidates have haunted Bacheva’s campaign for Minister. Will Viktor be next?_ **

**_Until then, Kalina and Viktor will continue to be under the watchful eyes of readers and those at Witch Weekly._ **

_Thomas Smith is a 26-year-old junior correspondent for Witch Weekly stationed in Sofia, Bulgaria. He has published numerous articles in the Daily Prophet, Spella Magazine, and Which Wizard._

Hermione chokes at the article. How in the world did they find out so quickly about Viktor and Kalina? It seems to be only days ago when he mentioned it to her in a letter.

“So is Krum really off the market?” asks Kath, her finger curling around a strand of blonde hair. She takes one glance at her team leader’s death eye. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop asking. But I’m letting you know that Viktor is _dreamy_.” She even draws out the last syllable and give an elaborate sigh. She pretends to hobble away and then bounces right back to rest her elbow on top of Hermione’s cubicle. “But what do you think of the rookie?”

“ _Daily Prophet_? Spella Magazine? Which Wizard? These periodicals? These publishers?” Hermione raises an eyebrow and scratches behind her ear. “Two of them are gossip rags. _Daily Prophet_ is slightly better, but it does indulge in gossip. Too frequently.”

She can easily remember the days of Rita Skeeter writing all of those horrible things about Harry and her. It seems just yesterday.

She looks up at Kath. “Do you know how he got accepted to the Ministry of Magic?”

She shrugs. “They must have thought that five O.W.L.s were impressive enough.” A pause. “But probably because of his excellent ways of finding celebrity secrets.”

Hermione leans back in her chair, tilting her head in confusion.

“I bribed someone to give me the full details on our rookie. Just so we could know more about him. Before we meet him. They accepted his application, because he somehow managed to dig up some dirty secrets about the Canadian Minister and they were impressed by how he managed to find it in the first place.”

“So why not in the Auror Department? There are still some empty spaces.” She quickly thinks back to the day Ron told her that he quit his job at the Auror Office and went to work at George’s joke shop. It should have not been a surprise yet it was a surprise. Maybe, she was more surprised by how long he had it.

Three long years.

“—didn’t have enough O.W.L.s.” Kath looks at her expectedly with a raise eyebrow.

Hermione blinks and takes a sip from her coffee cup. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Kath shakes her head. “You have no idea what I was talking about.”

“No,” admits Hermione.

Rolling her eyes, she nods. “I know. You have that faraway look you always get whenever I start rambling. Anyway”—she picks up the article from Witch Weekly off of Hermione’s desk—“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll have my report written up by noon this Friday, and I’ll collect Gregory’s data sheet as soon as possible.”

She takes another sip from her coffee and opens her eyes as wide as possible in an attempt to keep awake. She has only written down the date and nothing else.

Reluctantly, she continues writing and ignores her cramped hand.

**Portree, Scotland, England: Crime Rates of 2003 to 2004**

_In Portree, the wizarding population has decreased over the years with the vast majority of the emigrants moving over to United States due to the relocation of the local candy company, Flavored Never-Ending Pops. The crime rate has increased in higher rates than the previous year, 2002 to 2003. Furthermore, the. . ._

She can feel her own eyelids closing despite the two consumed cups of coffee.

_III._

Lord Voldemort seethes at Thrasher, ignoring the cramp in his hand. He does not need to learn any more details of that blasted Kalina Be—whatever her name is. He does not need to know anything more about Viktor Krum nor does he want to know the odd details of the Canadian Minister’s personal life. The Canadian Minister may be bisexual and in the closet about it, and he may have a new beau or crush in the American Minister, but they are insignificant facts and people in his eyes.

Worst of all, his hair still hasn’t changed back.

It’s still pink.

“Keep writing,” prompts Thrasher happily. He looks down at his clipboard. “You still need to write the article about the happy marriage between Ginevra Molly Weasley and Harry James Potter on November 14, 2003. You have a deadline to meet.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just know that it is very unusual for me to update so quickly. Mostly, I'm just avoiding homework (Stats and English).

_I._

**_THE WEDDING OF HARRY JAMES POTTER AND GINERVA MOLLY WEASLEY: A STORY OF ROMANCE FOR THE AGES_ **

_November 14, 2003_

**_For those avid followers of Rita Skeeter’s column at the Daily Prophet, it would be easy to remember the gossip of something more happening between Ginevra “Ginny” Weasley, the Holyhead Harpies Chaser, and Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. It seemed only yesterday when the couple was all the Wizarding World talked about in December of 2001._ **

**_It was even longer and shorter for them. They were briefly in a relationship in Harry Potter’s sixth year at Hogwarts and Ginevra Weasley’s fifth year. They broke up before Weasley’s sixth year at Hogwarts._ **

**_The wedding was set in Godric’s Hollow in front of Harry Potter’s recently purchased home, which was bought for approximately 3,000 galleons with enough room for a wedding to be set on the back lawn. It was elegantly decorated with the skillful help of the mischievous George Weasley, who conveniently set up multiple balloons with random effects, and the bride’s brother, Ronald Weasley. The wedding [picture above] was set in colors of white, red, and gold._ **

**_The wedding itself was crowded with many members of the Weasley family along with Dumbledore’s Army (DA). Classmates of the couple such as Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, and Luna Lovegood were in attendance. Hermione Granger was right by the bride’s side at almost all parts of the wedding as the Maid of Honor. The minutes before the union of Harry James Potter and Ginevra Molly Weasley was not peaceful, and it was wrought with unusual pranks and a casualness which wouldn’t be found at Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy’s wedding._ **

**_We sigh in relief and awe as the beautiful bride dressed in white made her way and took Harry Potter as her lawfully wedded husband. Though the two were wedded with the warm words of one Rubeus Hagrid, it was their vows to each other which held all of our attention and our hearts._ **

**_To Ginevra, Harry said:_ **

**_. . ._ **

_II._

He nearly tears apart the parchment into pieces. Only a stern and gleeful look from Thrasher and his eager fingers prevent him from destroying it again. He bites his tongue, and he dips his crushed quill into the bottle of ink and hesitates to write again using the memories of some dead Weasley who attended the unfortunate and sappy wedding.

If only, if only.

He glances at the floor covered in thick, rolled balls of parchment and then reluctantly continues penning the wedding article.

_III._

**_THE WEDDING OF HARRY JAMES POTTER AND GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY: A STORY OF ROMANCE FOR THE AGES (Cont.)_ **

**_To Ginevra, with the greatest sincerity and thoughtfulness we have rarely seen in grooms, Harry said:_ **

**_“We’ve grown up together. We grew up together in times of peace. We grew up together in times of war. I want to thank you for everything. I promise you that if you want to, if you would like to, I would spend the rest of my days with you. In heart, in laughter, in everything.”_ **

**_Crying now, Ginevra said to Harry:_ **

**_“I promise that I will be your partner, your friend, your heart, your everything. I promise I will be there for you in the brightest of days and the darkest of the nights. I will be there in the dawn, and I’ll wait for you to dusk. Because I love you.”_ **

**_A pause._ **

**_Ginevra added:_ **

**_“I would like to spend the rest of my days with you.”_ **

**_The Weasleys burst into applause and cheers, and poor Molly Weasley was swept away in floods of tears. Fireworks danced across the sky as the happy bride and groom walked to the apparition point in Godric’s Hollow and disappeared onto their Honeymoon trip across Europe and the Americas. They would be back in England next year._ **

_III._

He bares his teeth at Thrasher. “No,” he hisses. “I will not write that.”

Thrasher only smirks.

_IV._

**_THE WEDDING OF HARRY JAMES POTTER AND GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY: A STORY OF ROMANCE FOR THE AGES (Cont.)_ **

**_And they lived Happily Ever After._ **

**_We, here at Witch Weekly, congratulate the newly wedded couple, Mr. Harry James Potter and Mrs. Ginevra “Ginny” Molly Potter._ **

_Thomas Smith is a 25-year-old senior wedding announcer for Witch Weekly’s Commitments column. He is currently residing in Godric’s Hollow, England. He has published numerous articles in the Daily Prophet, Spella Magazine, and Which Wizard._

_V._

“You—” snarls the Dark Lord. He is sure that he would be spilling a curse out next, but not a single word pops out of his mouth. The infuriating elf-like creature only glows in Voldemort’s suffering.

“Yes. Please,” eagerly says Thrasher. “I dare you to say it.” His black eyes glow brighter somehow, and Voldemort can feel the slightest prickling at the back of his neck. The last time he has remotely felt something like this was when he dueled Albus Dumbledore at the Ministry of Magic’s headquarters.

He remains silent.

Thrasher still smiles. “Good. The next article you will write is about Draco Malfoy’s beautiful, extravagant wedding to Astoria Greengrass. Make sure you write a minimum of three paragraphs about her dress. She insists on her dress being written thoughtfully and kindly and politely.”

The quill snaps under the Dark Lord’s grip.

_VI._

**_GREENGRASS AND MALFOY HIGH SOCIETY WEDDING_ **

_March 12, 2003_

**_In the dressing room, I managed to meet with Draco Malfoy to ask him a few more questions before he is married to Astoria Greengrass. The blonde carefully buttoned up to his neck, and he ran a hand through his oiled blond hair. He was quite thoughtful and thorough as I asked him question after question._ **

**_TS: Do you consider this the last moment as an unmarried man?_ **

**_DM: No. I don’t. Astoria is kind, polite, achingly perfect in ways I never thought she would be. I never thought about my status as an unmarried or married man. To me, she is the one and marriage doesn’t matter as long as I’m with her. I don’t consider myself free in any way. The second I met her was the second I knew._ **

**_TS: It sounds romantic._ **

**_DM: (smiles) Yes. I suppose that is what you’ll call it._ **

**_I even managed to visit the bride before she was to be married to her betrothed. She, in the presence of her mother and older sister, was fixing up her lusciously long dress. [See image to right for more details.] It was Slytherin green with specks of silver and the slightest bit of grey. A necklace with black diamonds and crystals curled around her neck, and her auburn-brownish hair were decorated with additional tiny rubies and sparkles. There had never been a more graciously dressed bride than the former Miss Greengrass._ **

**_The dress was personally designed by Cho Chang, a current up and coming fashion designer in the recent trends. Shimmering silver when sunrays hit the dress from high angles, the dress is clearly made to stun and awe all those who witnessed its splendor. Dozens of cameras were aimed at Miss Greengrass and were cementing the moment she came out of Malfoy Manor’s back doors of the ballroom. The dress swished around._ **

**_But what was truly spectacular was her train. It was measured at three meters long with tiny diamonds and other such jewels like red rubies and emeralds sewed into the silver green fabric. A close source told me that the Malfoys went “full out” for the new bride in the family. Costing approximately more than twelve years of my current salary at Witch Weekly, the dress was clearly worth its value._ **

**_The Malfoys looked back as the bride entered the ballroom, and they waited patiently—with the slightest hint of approval on Matriarch Malfoy’s face. When the couple was bonded together by a close friend of the two families, there was polite applause._ **

**_It was a very formal affair, but it was the reception afterwards which were a little less tame and out of the sorts. From the elaborate dances to the blatant but flattering proposals I had incidentally received from far older woman at the reception, I was also surprised by the extravagant food such as tart imported from the Americans and old wines imported from Germany. Never have I ever been to a wedding like this before._ **

**_But it was truly not the most important thing I saw._ **

**_After their exchanged vows—in which neither of them had outstanding, romantic vows like the marriage between George Weasley and Angelica Johnson, both war heroes, which sent much of the witches and some wizards in the Wizarding World into a frenzy to write vows like the wedded couple—the newly wedded couple were sitting in the corner and looking utterly relaxed with each other. Draco Malfoy’s hand was curled around her shoulders, and Astoria was looking at him as if he is the first and last man she would ever see._ **

**_It was a fine way to start a marriage._ **

_Thomas Smith is a 25-year-old senior wedding announcer for Witch Weekly’s Commitments column. He is currently residing in Godric’s Hollow, England. He has published numerous articles in the Daily Prophet, Spella Magazine, and Which Wizard._

_VII._

Two hours before the arrival of Thomas Smith, Hermione Granger manage to take a few moments out of her time to sneak by Kath’s desk and take a peek at what she has discovered about the _Witch Weekly_ writer, Thomas Smith. He writes all sort of wedding articles including one she once read a long time ago on Angelica and George’s wedding. He was even there for Percy’s wedding, amazingly enough. It seems like he managed to cover every single wedding that was happening between 2001 and 2003. It is in late 2003 when _Witch Weekly_ promoted and moved him to the Bulgarian gossip scene.

He is the male version of Rita Skeeter. A slight more polite, distant, and respectful one—but that is what he really is. The only difference is that he can’t turn into a beetle to help gain information to write more informative articles.

As she reads through some of his articles—a few of them were causing her to tear up in sighs and to bring out the tissue papers—she sniffles quietly and glances at the clock. Six o’clock, and she has to get ready to raid one of their suspects’ homes by nine thirty.

She stands up and goes into the bathroom to freshen it. An all-nighter at the Ministry of Magic always forces her to use their gym showers to look presentable the next day. She would rather not see Ron before she had her breakfast and her coffee and had washed up.

The last time she did, they was an argument. He thinks she is working too hard and too much, and she knows that she has to keep up in the Ministry or else her career will be pushed into the back of the Department of Law Enforcement and she will never be promoted. The last time she was promoted was last year when she became team leader of the squad patrolling and covering—what the Muggles called it—Inverness.

“Granger!” Leaning towards her desk, the office messenger plants a yellow parcel of something thick and heavy inside. “This is for you from HR. Smith, Thomas file.”

“Thank you, Eddie.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hermione walks over to her desk. It would be the official documents on the new recruit—not the little pieces of here and there Kath stole from HR while the file was being created for her. She opens the parcel and finds a quick summary of the new recruit.

**NAME: SMITH, THOMAS**

**DATE OF BIRTH: 31 DECEMBER 1978 (26 YEARS OLD)**

**LOCATION OF BIRTH: FALMOUTH, ENGLAND (CORNWALL COUNTY)**

**MINISTRY ID NUMBER: X98-234WE-0932B-09382**

**ID NUMBER: 093382-TS**

**DEPARTMENT: DEPARTMENT OF LAW ENFORCEMENT (MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT PATROLS OFFICE; INVERNESS SQUAD)**

**HAIR: BLACK**

**EYES: HAZEL**

**LANGUAGE: ENGLISH, SPANISH, BULGARIAN, ALBANIAN, [PASSABLE] ISTANBUL** **TURKISH**

**EDUCATION: HOMESCHOOLED**

**OWLs:**

  1. **DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS: EXCEEDS EXPECTATION**
  2. **POTIONS: EXCEEDS EXPECTATION**
  3. **TRANSFIGURATION: OUTSTANDING**
  4. **ARITHMANCY: EXCEEDS EXPECTATION**
  5. **CHARMS: EXCEEDS EXPECTATION**
  6. **DIVINATION: POOR**
  7. **ASTROLOGY: ACCEPTABLE**
  8. **HISTORY OF MAGIC: ACCEPTABLE**



**NEWTs:**

  1. **DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS: EXCEEDS EXPECTATION**
  2. **POTIONS: EXCEEDS EXPECTATION**
  3. **TRANSFIGURATION: OUTSTANDING**
  4. **CHARMS: OUTSTANDING**
  5. **ARITHMANCY: ACCEPTABLE**



**EMPLOYMENT HISTORY:**

  1. _**WITCH WEEKLY**_ **: WEDDING ANNOUNCER IN 2000 TO 2003, JUNIOR CORRESPONDENT IN BULGARIA IN 2004**



**NOTES:**

**COMES WITH TWO RECOMMENDATIONS (J.S)**

**ONLY FAMILY IS THRASHER SMITH (UNCLE; MATERNAL RELATIONSHIP), PARENTS DECEASED, YOUNGER SIBLING DIED AT BIRTH (L.S.R)**

**TRULY OUTSTANDING AT TRANSFIGURATION (B.X.R.)**

**ADEPT AT DETECTIVE WORK, THOUGH FOR UNSAVORY REASONS (B.X.R)**

**1 ST BACKGROUND CHECK ADMINISTRATOR: John Salvador **

**2 nd BACKGROUND CHECK ADMINISTRATOR: Lilith Sara Rossi **

**3 rd BACKGROUND CHECK ADMINISTRATOR: Billy Xavier Richardson **

It goes on and on for several pages about Thomas Smith. Though she knows a lot about what he has done, she doesn’t know anything about him at all.

“Granger! Suspect spotted in Balloch twenty minutes ago. Get your squad out in the field now,” shouts her boss, Madeline Ross. Ross is the current head of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrols. Rumors have it that the rotund blonde has been eyeing for a position in the Department of Mysteries.

“Got it,” she yells back. “I’ll have it on right away.” Thomas Smith’s file forgotten, she immediately enchants her voice to a magnified level and the alarms go off. “Inverness Squad A, prepare yourself for immediate apparition.”

Then she begins to dress herself in the standard black Patrol uniforms.

It’s time to catch a murderer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very disappointed in you all. Damn it. I don't know about you, but I prefer comments over kudos. Just saying. 
> 
> (Yes, that was a hint.)
> 
> If you're not aware, I'm also putting this fanfic on Fanfiction.net. No. No one is plagiarizing me. (At least, not yet.) If you want to take a snippet of my stuff, you got to link back to the original fanfic (either on ao3 or Fanfiction.net). Thanks everyone who has sent some love via follows, favorites, and most important of all, reviews.
> 
> Also, I don't update every day or so. The last few days were me avoiding my homework. Now, I really have to do it for the rest of the month. *goes to the corner to sit and cry for an hour or so*

Surrounding the Muggle shopping center, Inverness Squad A slowly begins to make their first attempted breach into the suspect’s location. Hermione Granger watches as Kath transfigures her black tactical gear into something befitting more of a Muggle window-shopping. She pulls on bubbly pink sunglasses and bounces on high heels as she sways her hips and makes her way towards the suspect.

Two other members of the twelve-man squad are also changing their outfits and going undercover. She will not be one of them. Instead, she will be monitoring their progress using a specialized set of two-way Extendable Ears made from the Weasley’s joke shop. Only Wizarding law enforcements could buy it.

“Suspect was last seen in the food court,” she says. From the rooftop across the mall, she eyes at the front entrance—just in case the murderer decides to appear in that direction. She presses the tiniest ear ever created towards her ear and attached it with a tiny clip. “Kath, do you see him yet?”

“No,” she says. “I’m close.”

“Alright.” She sits back but relaxes almost too soon.

“Slowly get up. Do not make any sudden moves,” orders the missing murderer.

_II._

He feels the tiniest throbbing between his eyes as he writes yet another wedding announcement. He doesn’t understand how there could be so many married couples in Harry Potter’s generation. The wedding announcements he has to write were endless, and even worse is the fact that he had to view every single wedding using someone’s memories. He has to take a note of everything the first time or else Thrasher makes him re-watch the wedding.

It was a personal nightmare.

“Do you know why you are feeling a migraine?” casually asks Thrasher. “It’s that point in your head. An odd sort of feeling, isn’t it? I believe the only times you felt anything like that was when you felt your Horcrux being destroyed. Remarkably similar the pain is, isn’t it?”

His quill pauses. “What did you do to me?”

“You should know that every time you feel that pain,” Thrasher pauses and taps his wrinkled forehead, “it is because Hermione Granger is in danger. She is very close to Thanatos right this moment.”

A pause.

Lord Voldemort has the immediate suspicion that it would be too good to be true if Hermione Granger goes over the deep end and manages to die a very long, painful death.

True to the Dark Lord’s prediction, Thrasher gives him a wide smirk. “It is a good thing that Hermione Granger is very capable of taking care of herself. She is, after all, a member in the Department of the Magical Law Enforcement. Specifically, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrols office. I have this fine suspicion that she would have a quick change in career into something more dangerous.”

Voldemort can just picture it. Hermione Granger is getting herself into some sort of odd business all while he has to play her guardian angel and save her from some messy affair. He can’t _wait_ to play guardian angel.

He wonders what would happen if he lets her die.

Thrasher cruelly laughs. “Good luck. If she dies, you’ll end up back in that cold Limbo where we can watch you sob and curl into a tiny, little ball to the end of time. To your true end.”

But if he protects her to the end of her nature life, what would happen?

He moves the quill down to the parchment and feel the migraine in his head subside. He blinks in surprise, but it shouldn’t be so unexpected. After all, Hermione Granger has saved herself.

_III._

Hermione Granger types out the report and checks the clock. Seven thirty in the morning. She can hardly believe that apprehending a murderer could be so fast. It took only an hour and ten minutes to log any evidence of their presence and to deal with any Muggles who have accidentally happened upon their scene.

Of course, her entire team have to do the preliminary reports and write their statements. There are Hit Wizards who are currently working around the clock to find out more about the serial killer. But the most important fact is that he is clearly guilty and is currently in custody.

She can almost breathe a sigh of relief.

But that is until she remembers she has to deal with the rookie coming in. Not simply a rookie. A former wedding announcer for the “Commitment” section and a junior correspondent for the Bulgarian celebrity community. She can almost hear a male Rita Skeeter voice inside of her head, asking about all sorts of personal questions of what one third of the so-called Golden Trio has been doing with her life ever since the defeat of Lord Voldemort.

While Ron may wish the opposite, Hermione is so glad she doesn’t have to deal with the press anymore. For the last six years, she remains relatively out of the spotlight.

She pulls out the quill and dips it into a bottle of ink. She presses a finger against her forehead, and after finding inspiration, she begins to write a recount of the early morning’s arrest.

**_ARREST: MCCOY, SAM_ **

_June 15, 2004_

**_CONSTABLE: GRANGER, HERMIONE JEAN (ID: 009753-HG)_ **

**_SUMMARY:_ **

**_At approximately six forty-five this morning, I was on the rooftop across the Muggle shopping center (called a shopping mall) and watching several members of my squad (Kathryn Jimenez, Gilbert Hughes) enter from the north entrance. Aldrich Petit entered from the east entrance. Caleb Parkinson watched the south exit point, Chelsea Robins monitored the movement of Muggles, Heather Chase and David Richmond were setting up Anti-Muggle charms around the shopping mall, and Katrina Salvador Confunded Muggles into leaving the premises._ **

**_Two minutes after individual breaches into the ball, I did not hear a pop indicating apparition, but the suspect—Sam McCoy—was able to sneak up from behind and point his wand at me. He demanded me to hold my hands up and to hand over my wand slowly. My squad was able to hear through most of the conversations because of the Extendable Ears. Parkinson, who was stationed at the south employees’ exit of the mall, was able to quickly distract McCoy by appariting two meters away on McCoy’s left._ **

**_A brief duel occurs between McCoy, Parkinson, and I. We were able to safely detain him after I have petrified him._ **

**_SPELLS USED:_ **

  1. **_STUNNING SPELL (APPROXIMATELY 2-3 TIMES): CASTER WERE PARKISON AND GRANGER_**
  2. **_SHIELD CHARM (3): PARKISON (2), GRANGER_**
  3. **_KILLING CURSE (2): MCCOY (2)_**
  4. **_BODY BIND CURSE (1): GRANGER_**
  5. **_UNIDENTIFIED TRANSFIGURATION SPELL (1): PARKISON, who turned nearby litter into attacking fairy-like creatures._**
  6. **_REDUCTOR CURSE (1): MCCOY_**
  7. **_CONFUNDUS CHARM (APPROXIMATELY 21): SALVADOR_**



She rubs the back of her fingers against her eyes and reads over her report one more time. She still hasn’t completed the crime rate report on that Scottish village. She yawns and slips the report into a yellowish-white parcel. The parcel disappears to wherever the Hit Wizards are currently working.

It annoys her somewhat that she had to give the Hit Wizards an interview which lasted thirty or so minutes. It would had been perfectly enough time to finish the crime rate reports and use statistics to calculate the future rates.

He feels like he is dying all over again.

Except this is far worse than dying. He can already hear the snickering from his dead enemies as he walks through the halls of the remodeled Ministry of Magic with the brightest pink hair—which somehow has the fortune of being the first pink hairstyle to grace this Ministry headquarters. He can feel the eyes on him, but he tries to ignore them.

He has learned decades’ worth of the darkest arts possible. He knows secrets which would never see the light of day. He had the ability to strike fear into the entire Wizarding World. But he has never—ever—reached this level of humiliation before.

His eyes kept slightly upwards, he accidentally bumps into a man whose messy hair is all that he sees. The Dark Lord glances downwards, and it seems to be forever when his eyes finally land on the lightning bolt scar on his forehead and the amused green eyes. The Boy-Who-Lived, his long-time enemy, Harry Potter is silently laughing at him.

Voldemort seethes, but he plants a too-polite smile—more like wince—on his face. “Hello, Mr. Potter. It has been a good day.”

Harry Potter raises his eyebrow and pointedly examine Voldemort’s hair. “Yes. I believe so.” He chuckles and loudly pretends coughing. Then he turns his back and walks away with purpose, talking loudly to an unfortunate secretary about some report he must have on his desk by tomorrow night.

Secretaries. He already hates the sound of that.

He takes the lift to the Basement Level Three and slips into the HR section. He raises his eyebrow at the long, long lines and then raises his watch to examine the time. Only six forty in the morning. He’s earlier than he is expected to be, but he has no doubt that Thrasher will have some sort of sick punishment cooked up for him if he puts a single toenail out of line.

He has already threatened to make him do the chicken dance in front of Severus Snape. Clearly, Thrasher doesn’t understand the fact that Dark Lords do not dance. For any reason whatsoever. Apparently Gellert Grindelwald had to jump out of the cake for Albus Dumbledore’s birthday.

He shivers.

He needs to find a way out of the punishment. There has to be a way to escape the devil’s punishment. The only positive side to all of this is that the Dark Lord is alive and breathing—for however long Granger may live, assuming he doesn’t get into some sort of trouble.

“Smith, Thomas.” he says once he gets to the receptionist’s desk. “I’m here for—”

“Yes. You will not be working with the temporary secretaries,” interrupts the receptionist, pulling the messy strands of her midnight-black hair into a ponytail. He likes her—only because she hardly looked at his hair. “Someone reassigned you to Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Apparently, you are too overqualified to be a secretary. They have assigned to Magical Law Enforcement Patrols. Inverness Squad, Basement Level Three. Ask for Hermione Granger’s squad if you get lost.”

“Thank you,” he says politely.

“Next!” she shouts.

In the empty break room, Hermione Granger fills up her coffee cup. Alone and silently thinking, she finds herself thinking more about the possible crime rates for 2005. If the candy factory leaves and goes overseas, then the entire Wizarding community will disappear unless they choose to work with Muggle businesses. As more of the employees are laid off, the more the crime rate increases and the more chances—

Someone knocks on the break room’s door.

Parkinson sticks his head in. He is a capable wizard, which isn’t surprising if one considers the ten years he spent in Magical Law Enforcement Patrols. He is a thin, bald man with a mild sense of humor and an almost perverse love of a sort of burrito with powerful beans especially well-known for upsetting a wizard’s stomach.

He says, “Hermione, the Hit Wizards closed the case. They still need bits of our research to finally put the file away, but we did it.”

She beams and sips her coffee. “I’ll send that over to Records.”

He nods and runs off. Then he sticks his head right back in with bright eyes. “Blimey, I nearly forgot. The new rookie who is replacing De La Cruz is here. Wandering around like he was hit with the Confundus Charm or something similar to that. Maybe got a Bludger in the head before he came here. Pink, perfectly styled hair. Right next to Petit’s desk. You can’t miss him.” Now, he runs off.

She has to take a moment to absorb his words.

Pink. . .

Perfectly styled hair?

She quickly wonders about the professionalism of this former wedding announcer and junior correspondent of an infamous British gossip rag, Thomas Smith.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to make Hermione's POV less funny and more serious. And I'm still going to torture Tom. 
> 
> Also, subsections (e.g. I., II., III.) don't always make it through the cut and paste for some reason. Tell me if the numbers get off somehow. 
> 
> Don't forget to leave your comments.

_I._

Parkinson is right. She can’t miss him.

It’s the pink, perfectly styled hair that makes him stand out. There is no other Ministry employees who would dare to dye their hair that pink. It reminds her of the pink lipstick Barbie would use whenever she goes on a date with the Ken doll.

Clearly, _Witch Weekly_ has far different expectations.

“Thomas Smith,” she calls out.

He turns around.

Hermione was expecting a teenage face or some sorts to go with the pink hair. Or perhaps, she was expecting a grumpy, relatively unattractive man whose closest experience to romance was viewing other people’s weddings. What she did not expect is a man with a left hand covered in ink and perfect, aristocratic features marred in confusion and then recognition.

“Hermione Granger?” he says, looking up and down and examining her. “You are her, correct?”

She breathes in. She can already hear the questions.

It would be hard to say nothing to his face. No wonder why those at _Witch Weekly_ hired him. He is the sort of man who could easily pry and seduce information out of those “close sources.”

She nods. “Yes?”

“Thomas Smith.” He tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m apparently reassigned to your squad.”

Scratching her hair, she frowns. “I never heard anything about reassignment. . . You were always supposed to be in my squad since you applied to a general position in the Ministry of Magic.”

He opens his mouth. Then he closes it.

Leaning onto Salvador’s cubicle separator, she squints her eyes. She tilts her head left and right. Then she raises her hand in front of her eyes and covers up the pink hair Thomas has. She wonders in puzzlement at why he looks so remarkably familiar to her. She shrugs and says, “I’ll get you set up in De La Cruz’s old desk. Have you ever been physically tested? Examined?”

“No.”

She sighs, already feeling a desire for a third cup of coffee. “Alright. Then I’ll have to get arrangements for that. But until you get a physical and go through a test, I’ll have various members of my squad working with you to get you up to speed.” A pause. She bluntly asks, “Do you always dye your hair pink?”

“No. I had an unfortunate incident with a spell. I can’t change it back.”

She takes a look at his hair, inspecting it. She reaches for it and then hesitates. “May I?”

Reluctantly, he bends his knees and lets his hair touch her hand. It’s truly as soft as it looks, and for a brief moment, she wonders what sort of conditioner he uses. Her long, usually-out-control-hair never feels anything remotely like this. After a moment of ignoring Kath’s snickering in the distance and the awkwardness in the situation, she lets go and inquires, “What spell were you using?”

He glances to the side. “Nothing of importance.”

“Well, it looks like your hair has a jinx of some sort. But you shouldn’t worry. It’ll be gone by tomorrow. It’s already exponentially decaying in strength.”

As she leads him towards De La Cruz’s old desk, she can hear him grumble something about the hideousness of pink hair. She can’t resist a smile, because in the minutes he was talking to her, he hasn’t asked one single question about her personal life.

_II._

He is annoyed by the frequent visitors to his cubicle. How many people must remark on his hair? Yes, it is pink. Yes, he is fully aware that it is indeed pink. No, it was not intentional. He might as well put up a FAQs packet on top of his desk at this rate.

The only woman who seems remotely polite to him—that is, remain free from some form of laughter or amusement—is Kath, Hermione Granger’s second-in-command. But he is completely sure she was laughing at him from beneath the desk. He couldn’t see why it is so funny. It’s hair. Pink, soft, yes, also dandruff-free hair.

This is why he was bald.

_III._

In Thomas Smith’s recently purchased flat in the middle of Muggle’s London, Voldemort opens his door and is completely unsurprised to see Thrasher sitting on the leather couch with a smirk on his ugly, wrinkled face. Thrasher leans close and somewhat politely questions, “So how was your first day, Tom? Lovely to be back in the real world?”

“Change back my hair,” he grits.

“Right to business?” Thrasher snaps his finger. “Now, that we are done—”

The Dark Lord nonverbally summons a mirror from the bathroom. He holds it up to his face and carefully examines his hair.

The devil’s servant taps his finger. “I never thought you were the vain one. You were quite ugly the day you died. Snake face. Nostrils and all. Bald as a baby.”

“I was a smidge out of my mind,” he reluctantly admits. As soon as those words come out of his mouth, he so longs to take them back. It’s true, but it’s not as if he wants to admit that it is anything close to being the truth.

Thrasher raises a hairless eyebrow. “A smidge? More like completely out of your mind. Your mind and its intelligence degraded with each and every Horcrux you made. Not so clever of you, Tom.”

“Stop calling me that.”

He tsks. “I see the Horcrux has some lasting effects on you.” A pause. Then he pulls out a large scroll—which must be in some sort of Extendable Pockets in the inside of Thrasher’s black suit jacket—and lets it unravel. “But in case you have some mental issues, I have written down a list of what you can and can’t do.” He levitates it towards the Dark Lord.

**THE RULES**

  1. **Thomas Smith (also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle and other names he enjoys using) can’t use Dark Arts (some exceptions) in defense, offense, or otherwise.**
  2. **Only Hermione Granger, the only living person and subject of the guardianship, is allowed to know the true identity of Thomas Smith.**
  3. **Thomas Smith, in cases of the greatest emergencies, will be allowed to shift to a “phase form” (a ghost-like/spiritual form which ascends the physical plane) in order to save Hermione Granger.**
  4. **Thomas Smith may not call Hermione Granger “Mudblood” aloud in any way, shape or form.**
  5. **Thomas Smith is required to save Hermione Granger when she is in danger. A migraine will alert him of her danger levels. A full-on headache would only be relieved slightly with each action Thomas Smith makes towards helping Hermione Granger.**
  6. **Thrasher reserves the right to add more rules when the times call for it.**



He presses the tip of his nose. He can already feel a headache coming on, and it isn’t because of Hermione Granger.

Thrasher remarks, “Tomorrow, after you have taken your physical tests and given your interview to the Ministry’s HR representatives, I’ll personally introduce you to Hermione Granger. She will know the truth by then.” He gives a broad grin. “You should go to bed, Tom. You have a big day coming up, and you don’t want to do so poorly on the physical.”

_IV._

Hermione Granger stands in her shared apartment. Ron is in the bathroom and brushing his teeth, and she has barely said a single word to him this entire day. Only a greeting at most. As soon as she got home, she dives right into the reports and begins typing rapidly on her laptop. It’s much faster to type than to write by hand.

Thankfully, the Ministry has advanced far enough to allow certain changes. Like an acceptable in some Muggle technology. Muggleborns like Hermione takes full advantage of that.

She stares long and hard at her bookshelf. There is a picture that has a person who looks so remarkably like Thomas Smith in one of these many books, but she can’t remember exactly which book. She runs her fingertip across titles.

Ron calls out, “Have you picked up the groceries?”

“Not yet,” she replies. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday.” He comes out in flannel pajamas and a toothbrush in hand. “And you said that the day before. Luckily, I bought some on the way back from the shop.”

She smiles at him. “Thanks, Ron.”

He nods. “But you need to cut back on your time. I barely see you around. You sleep more at the Ministry than home, and you work far more hours than anyone else.”

“Ron—”

Ron shakes his head. “I saw your time card they sent over by owl yesterday. Bloody hell, when I saw the hours you put in. You spent over seventy hours working last week. I know you are a team leader, but Hermione, you told me you were going to work less. But you are working even more than before.” Then he disappears back into the bathroom before Hermione can give him a rebuttal.

It is not much of a rebuttal.

All she can say is that she’s trying to start from the bottom and climb up the ladder to become someone who can actually inspire change through the system. Until then, she has to work the system. She has to play the same game as everyone else.

But Ron wouldn’t truly understand. He doesn’t have the same drive as she does. He doesn’t have the same ambitions.

She turns back towards the bookshelf. As if possessing a mind of its own, her fingers go all the way down to the bottom shelf and to the right. She reaches for a thick, textbook-sized book she purposely covers up with a rainbow-pattern book cover. Her heart drops, and her mouth dries.

Her horrible suspicion deepens.

She opens to the title page.

Her eyes find the title itself.

**THE DARK LORD: TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE, a biography on the darkest but also most powerful wizard of the 20 th century**

Her fingers flip slowly towards that page. It’s close to the beginning. The image is in the fourth chapter. It’s about the travels Voldemort has taken throughout his youth—his twenties. A single photo has managed to capture the handsome face. It’s only the known picture of him, and out of the context, he seems so normal.

Yet he is not.

Her lungs momentarily stops at his face. Dark, beautiful black hair. Purposeful eyes. A chiseled nose which clearly belonged to the high society of rich and affluent wizards. Strong features. And a certain aura about him that makes him stand out from every other gorgeous face.

It just so happens to be the same face as Thomas Smith, if one ignores the pink hair.

_V._

The newest member of her squad somehow manages to be Lord Voldemort himself. Restored to his youth, clearly. Restored to life.

She drops the book on the floor in shock.

“Hermione?” Ron says. “Are you okay?”

She ignores him, her mind already trying to figure out the possibilities of him actually being Lord Voldemort. Yes, he looks the same. But could it be. . .?

Can it truly be him?

She bends down to pick up the book and lies, “Yes, everything is alright. I think I have a new case I must solve. It will take much longer than usual.”

He groans. “You need to get your head of work.”

She wishes she could. But this case is too important not to follow. Because if there’s a single percent chance that Voldemort might somehow be back, she will make sure that she determine whether or not he has.

She palms her forehead as she thinks back to her conversation to Thomas. She even tipped him off. He knows that she suspected something in his physical characteristics is off. If he thinks that she might know. . .

Hermione can feel a headache coming on.

And she thought the only game she has to play is office politics.

She examines the photograph—the only known photograph of Tom Riddle in his twenties—and her gut clenches in the slightest feeling of terror. Everything matches. If she takes a black and white photo of Thomas Smith and color his hair black, she is sure the faces will match. It has to him. It has to him.

Harry has to be warned.

She dashes over to her desk and immediately picks up a quill.

She only begins writing when she stops.

Writing is too dangerous. If he is watching this apartment—or watching Harry’s—he could easily intercept the owl and know she is onto him.

She’ll have to tell Harry in person.

Right away.

_VI._

“What do you mean you need to go somewhere?” asks Ron, his angry eyes glancing at the clock they have in the corner of the living room. “It’s two in the morning! You came back from the Ministry at eleven at night. Now instead of sleeping, you want to go over somewhere? Hermione, you can’t live on coffee and tea and whatever anti-sleeping spells you’ve been using.”

“Look, I have a suspicion that is a threat to the Wizarding World,” she tells him.

Ron raises an eyebrow. Sarcastically, he remarks, “Isn’t that what you tell me every time you have to leave in the middle of the night?”

Hermione gives him a look. But he isn’t wrong about that. Half of the time, she gets breakthroughs in a case at home and has to leave to stop some sort of murderer or kidnapper from getting his or her next victim.

Letting go a sigh, she says, “I think it has to do with You-Know-Who.”

With that, all of Ron’s anger leaves him. He shakes his head. “You mean his Death Eaters are up to something again? Those bastards are going to try to do some ritual to bring him back?”

“No.” She pauses. “I think he’s already back. I saw him today.”

A long moment of silence.

Then Ron says, “Prove it.” He taps the side of his head. “Show me.”

She nods. “Alright. I’ll show it to you.”

_VII._

Ron and Hermione dives into the Pensieve bowl tucked away in Hermione’s little work section. She pulled out that specific memory—completely cutting out the part where she touched his hair. Just keeping that part where she saw him wandering around and then turning around to face her. A brief scene.

Ron moves closer to him and begins to laugh when he sees the pink hair. He turns to her and says, “Well, no one would expect Chief Death Eater to have hair that bloody color.”

She wants to snort, but she can’t take it as a joke. This is You-Know-Who, who has terrorized the Wizarding World not once but twice. She can’t laugh the coincidence off. Besides, it won’t be surprising for Voldemort to come back. He has experimented with magic to the most extreme levels. Who knows what sort of magic he has used in his search for immortality? Who knows whether or not he has some sort of spell that could resurrect him?

Who knows whether or not he has actually died on that fateful day in 1998?

Thomas Smith—Tom Riddle’s lookalike—turns around. Now that she thinks of it, Thomas Smith is a very similar name to Tom Riddle. Tom is the short version of Thomas, and Smith is one of the most common last names in both the Wizarding World and the Muggle world. It’s a perfect, ordinary name for someone who wants to hide.

“Hermione Granger?” he says. “You are her, correct?”

She takes a look at his expression, seeing not a single thing but general politeness. Not a single sign of the psychopath underneath. He takes in Hermione’s looks—his eyes moving from the flats she wears to the pencil skirt to the white blouse to her messy hair she tries to keep straight. Perhaps there is a flicker of amusement in his dark brown eyes.

Ron takes a long look at him, pauses as he tries to speak his words, and finally tells her, “He doesn’t look anything alike. Good-looking bloke, but I don’t see it.”

“What do you mean you don’t see it?”

They come out of the Pensieve, and she picks up the biography on Voldemort. She points angrily at the picture and hisses, “How do you not see it? All of the features match!”

Clearly worried, Ron shakes his head. “No. I don’t see it. He has a round face. Not sharp like Riddle’s. His nose is longer, and his eyes are light hazel. Not black. Hermione, it’s clearly not him.”

“But—”

He holds up his hands at her. “Hermione, go to bed.”

“No,” she refuses, determination in her blood. She pulls a coat over herself, puts the memory into a vial, pick up the biography, and goes to the fireplace. She could feel Ron’s worry from here, and she finds it stifling. She picks up the powder and shouts, “The Potters’ Villa.”

_VIII._

“Him?” Harry Potter pulls himself out of the Pensieve and rubs his eyes. He—like Hermione—hasn’t gone to bed yet. Harry is working on some sort of international case that requires too many hours and more numbers of wizards than the number of wizards already on the case. She doesn’t know the details, because she isn’t in the Auror Office.

Harry snorts a little. “Yeah, I remember him. Confused. I ran into him in the entrance.”

She raises her eyebrows. “But does he look familiar? In any way?”

Harry stares off blankly. “Should he be?”

“Harry,” she says, pointing to the biography’s image. “Doesn’t he look anything alike to him?” She thrusts her finger at Voldemort’s picture.

He shakes his head. “No.” Bewildered, he says, “He looks nothing like Voldemort. Hermione, you okay?”

She rubs her eyes.

First Ron. Now Harry.

“Is Ginny up?” she asks, her hopes somewhat shattered. Perhaps she is indeed delusional. No one—but her—is seeing Lord Voldemort behind the pink hair of Thomas Smith.

“She’s sleeping now. She’ll be up in the morning.”

Hermione glances at the clock and nods. “I want to see her before she gets to the Quidditch field. I need to talk to her.”

Harry shakes his head. Concerned, he narrows his eyes at her. “Are you sure nothing is wrong? You look like you have seen a ghost.”

It takes everything she has to not point how that she _has_ seen a ghost. She has seen a ghost in her new rookie, Thomas Smith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, the next chapter.

_I._

Not even Ginny recognizes him.

_II._

Her mind whirls. How is it possible?

Or is she truly insane as her friends may think?

Perhaps she _has_ been working too hard. She is beginning to see patterns and strange coincidences when there aren’t any. After working so long at the Magical Law Enforcement and catching countless of perpetrators, her habit is crawling into her everyday life and into places where it shouldn’t be.

Sitting at her desk in the early morning, she taps her finger against her freshly completed crime report on a city out of jurisdiction. She sometimes enjoys writing requested reports from other cities, but today is not the day. It is only more work for her, thus resulting her less time for the Thomas Smith case. Not that the Ministry knows she is working on that case.

She hears footsteps behind her. Click, clacks. The high heels from her second-in-command. Kath really has to stop wearing those kinds of shoes. One day, they’ll make her trip and have her break her own neck. She heard that the bills at St. Mungo’s may be increasing again.

“Kath,” she loudly says. “I need that general report right now.”

The footsteps stop.

Kath replies, “I know. I need about an hour to fix up the graphs and make it look pretty enough to have Old Man Jason to see it, because he is such a stupid little—”

She suddenly cuts off.

After two seconds of not saying anything else, Hermione frowns. She turns around and says, “Kath, what is going on?”

Her mouth falls open.

There, two meters in front of her is Kath with her mouth open in mid-sentence and her eyelids partially open, partially closed. Kath is also in the middle of fixing her green satin bra discretely; her fingers are somewhat stuck in an inappropriate position.

Hermione quickly stands up in the strangest sight she has ever witnessed. Petit is in the middle of eating a coworker’s sandwich—which he has clearly stole. Parkinson has one finger of his left hand up his nose and his right hand frozen with a quill. Secretaries are in mid-step, and it is almost as if someone has taken a photograph of this single moment and stuck her—a living, breathing, moving being—into it.

Everything’s frozen in time. Except her.

She is absolutely certain she has completely lost her mind.

“You didn’t lose your mind. Not really. You are simply given the ability to see more than what most people are allowed to see,” says a strange yet also familiar voice. The only problem is that it is American. Purely American.

Hermione turns to the man. It’s Harry.  

Yet it is not. She rubs her eyes furiously, wondering if she needs to send herself to the loony bin. Perhaps she and Lockhart could practice writing autographs on napkins and anything they can get ahold of.

“No, no, no. You don’t need to go to a psychiatric ward.” The man with horns coming out of his head and a brown leather jacket floats towards her in between the cubicles. He mutters, “Why does everyone seem to think I look like Harry Potter?”

“Remarkably like him,” she adds. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

He smiles, snapping his finger. “Reminds you of someone else? Someone named Thomas Smith? Could you please tell me who he looks like?”

She pauses, unable to give him the name.

He answers his own question, tilting his head in an almost admiring nod—but Hermione isn’t quite sure, because he seems to be. . . a character of dubious nature. “Tom Marvolo Riddle. You wizards and witches call him Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and all of that shit. But I prefer to call him Tom Riddle. It helps me to call him his birth name instead of his alias. You have no idea how Hell sorts their prisoner files.”

Hermione blinks suddenly. “Hell?” she says hesitantly. She immediately begins looking around her workplace—as if she has never seen it before. “What is this? A joke?”

He wags a finger at her. “No joke. Here is the deal, Hermione Granger. Tom Marvolo Riddle has committed some of the most. . .” The Harry Potter lookalike taps his feet on the ground. “. . . I forgot what crimes he committed. He is so unremarkable. Mass murderers. Yawn. Anyway, he has committed some serious crimes I can’t recall. Typically, a murderer would go through eternal punishment or something along the lines. But rarely do we get a wizard with a Horcrux, much less seven of them. A wizard like that would be left in Limbo.”

“But?” she prompts.

“He was boring. Sobbing, crying, and generally being annoying. No one liked him, and all the other prisoners complained. A new punishment has been made for him.”

“What does this have to do with Thomas Smith?” In the very back of her mind, she can’t help but wonder if this is all a big practical joke George is playing on her. Perhaps, he has been feeding her some of that mushrooms Ron was growing in their garden. Speaking of those mushrooms, she has to get Ron to stop growing them. Their neighbors are complaining.

“Observant than most, smarter than most, stronger than most, unique among all.” He shakes his head and adds, “But most important of all, more compassionate than most. I’m assigning you a guardian angel. Tom Riddle will be your guardian angel for the rest of your life.”

Her stomach drops. She can already feeling some sort of horror at all of this. If she wakes up, maybe she can escape from this nightmare. Voldemort. . . living with her for the rest of her life. She will kill him before the next dawn.

“Doubtful.” He smirks, as if knowing something she doesn’t. “You see, you can’t kill him. He can’t kill you either. That’s the beauty in the punishment, Hermione Granger. He is forced to protect you, the Muggleborn who has forced him onto his knees. There is no better punishment than being the bodyguard to an enemy.”

She narrows her eyes. “But what is the catch?”

A smile forms. “Observant than most, smarter than most, stronger than most,” he echoes. He pulls out a scroll and drops it on top of her desk. “This is a list of rules for Tom Riddle that only you can read. He can’t read it. Your coworkers can’t read it. Your boyfriend can’t read it. They’ll think it is some book about refining wrist techniques. Review it. It can change at any moment. Thrasher, my assistant, loves to make a guardian angel’s job harder and more complicated.”

“But what is the catch?”

“You have to live with him. For the next decades.” The man pushes back his jet black hair and somehow manages to move around the horns without touching them. “You will know the greatest secret of all, and you will not be able to tell a single soul. The only difference is that you have a bodyguard, who is forced to protect you. An added layer of protection, if you would like to think. He is obligated to protect you, Miss Granger. Obligated. If he fails in any way, whether purposefully or accidentally. . .”

A beat.

He lifts a brow. “Then ouch for him. Let me say that he will not like it. It would be the worst punishment of all.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“None of that curiosity,” he teases. He turns around, almost as if to leave.

“Wait,” she calls out. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know? The Muggles love to call me the devil.” Then he fades away in a fine layer of mist and water and disappears from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrols offices.

Then time starts again.

_III._

During lunch break, she takes a peek at the rules.

**THE RULES (Hermione Granger’s Copy)**

  1. **Thomas Smith (also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle and other names he enjoys using) can’t use Dark Arts (some exceptions) in defense, offense, or otherwise.**
  2. **Only Hermione Granger, the only living person and subject of the guardianship, is allowed to know the true identity of Thomas Smith. Anyone she tries to tell it to will have their memories erased. Any more violations could have long-term mental consequences for whoever she talked to.**
  3. **Thomas Smith, in cases of the greatest emergencies, will be allowed to shift to a “phase form” (a ghost-like/spiritual form which ascends the physical plane) in order to save Hermione Granger. “Phase form” may not be used for not-emergency cases.**
  4. **Thomas Smith may not call Hermione Granger “Mudblood” aloud in any way, shape or form. Hermione Granger should not call Thomas Smith “Lord Voldemort” in any way and instead should address him as “Thomas Smith” or “Tom Marvolo Riddle.”**
  5. **Thomas Smith is required to save Hermione Granger when she is in danger. A migraine will alert him of her danger levels. A full-on headache would only be relieved slightly with each action Thomas Smith makes towards helping Hermione Granger. If Hermione Granger’s heart stops, Thomas Smith will be in the greatest agony known to man.**
  6. **Thrasher reserves the right to add more rules when the times call for it.**



_IV._

He has to save her.

He has to save her in times of danger.

He can’t hurt anyone anymore.

He can’t even use the Dark Arts (with some exceptions).

She simply needs to put up with him for the next decades or so.

A smile slowly begins to form on Hermione Granger’s face. The smile quickly changes from a full-blown wide smile to the nastiest, evilest grin known to mankind with a touch of the viciousness which Rita Skeeter had once faced in her beetle form.

_V._

Before he leaves for work, Thrasher appears in his kitchen and announces, “She knows who you are now, Mr. Riddle.” Then he disappears away—without a single sound and all the feline movements of a cat. Not a single hair of him left behind.

He can already feel a phantom migraine coming on.

_VI._

“Name?” asks the Ministry Healer. With an oddly deformed wand, he runs a brief examination spell over the Dark Lord’s body. It’s the sort of spell that picks up basic information like weight, size, dimensions, and shoe size.

“Thomas Smith,” he says. He is tempted to say “Lord Voldemort” just to witness the shrieks and fears, but unfortunately, he can’t say a single word. He is not going to walk around with some sort of odd hair when he already has spent an hour styling his hair and sticking as many anti-jinx spells on it as possible. He has a horrible suspicion that Thrasher could somehow get around all of them.

He might have to start inventing something strong or powerful. A specific type of hairspray which is anti-jinx, anti-curse, and anti-everything in general.

Or maybe he could simply shave his head. Go bald again.

His stomach sinks. He can feel Thrasher already planning and scheming his ways around the Dark Lord’s efforts to stop torturing in intrusive ways.

“How frequently do you exercise?” he asks.

Before or after he died, the Dark Lord sarcastically wonders.

Still, he answers, “Ever since I moved back from Bulgaria two weeks ago, I had no opportunity to exercise. I admit I was distracted.”

The Ministry Healer nodded his head. “Alright. You better get back on your feet. Magical Law Enforcement Patrols is one of the lazier offices in the Ministry, but you should keep relatively fit. Especially at your young age. It will help you in the long run, Mr. Smith. Were you in any relationships recently in Bulgaria?”

“No,” he replies.

“Have you been sexually active recently?”

Voldemort wants to throttle the healer. Since when did they begin asking all of these kinds of questions for a physical? Back in the 1950s, hardly anyone cared whether or not—

He pauses in mid-thought. Ministry of Magic. Of course, they must go around on a harder route. This is why he’s glad he doesn’t become Minister of Magic himself.

“Mr. Smith. You must answer the question.”

“Why?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Certain diseases could be transmitted. Bulgaria is a foreign nation and a different region than England. You could have accidentally picked up some magical STD or even a Muggle one,” informs the Healer. He adjusts the sleeves of his robes and then picks up a clipboard from the examination table. “Well, is there anything?”

“No. I haven’t been with anyone for a long time.”

“Alright, Mr. Smith. We’ll begin examining your endurance in two hours. You may not eat within those intervals of time. You may sit down and read a magazine or so. Healer Astrid will come by to take you to your examination room for physical.” Then the Healer walks out.

The man who looks like Thomas Smith sighs and sits back. He takes one long look at the _Witch Weekly_ cover on the top of a pile of magazines and then shakes his head to himself. One day, he will kill Thrasher for making him write all of those wedding articles for that rubbish magazine.

_VII._

Two hours later, he stands at the start of an obstacle course. The object is to go through a rigorous, two-mile long obstacle course to find a wizard who is acting as some sort of thief/fugitive. The obstacle—though highly unrealistic—is crowded with Dark creatures and such to gauge the proficiency of a wizard or witch.

He looks up at the bright sky above his head and then towards the dark cave he must go into. He shuts his eyes for a brief moment and ignores all of the scribbling Examiners standing behind him.

“Ready. Get set. Go.”

The Dark Lord simply continues standing there. He could sense. . .

Snakes. Whispering the secrets hiding within the cave.

_Bats, but nothing else. They want you to feel fear, Heir of Slytherin. But you will not need to fear us._

He has to stop himself from smiling as he walks through the cave as if it is only the finest stroll on the most beautiful and luxurious of beaches in the world. It takes even more strength not to reply to the snakes lying in the dark corners and waiting for prey. But he can’t resist to touch the closest one in gratitude. It slithers away from him, but it keeps at a certain distance away.

He begins to see a light ahead. Gripping his familiar phoenix-core wand, he walks closer to the exit of the cave. His eyes need time to adjust to the brighter light. Go too fast, and he can easily be blinded by the sun. That is how someone makes mistakes.

He should not make mistakes.

He is above mistakes.

He steps out into the daylight.

He is surprised—but not concerned—by the large spiders crawling towards him at the remarkable speed. No, he takes a long and relaxing moment to admire them and their hungry movements. Then he points his wand and nonverbally blasts them away from himself. They fly off into the air, their ugly hairless legs and piercers writhing in mid-air. They fly over the heads of the Examiners.

He smiles. At least, that spell works.

He continues on the obstacle course. He reaches to a golden, lion-like creature guarding a small rectangular prism made out of a foggy glass. A sphinx. A female one. It’s not the first time he has come across one. He waits and looks expectantly at her.

Stretching her wings, she notes, “You have met a sphinx before. One of my sisters or brothers.” Her golden eyes stare curiously at him, and her lips purse.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“Then you know how it goes.” She yawns a bit and then points a paw at the prism she protects. “Answer the riddle correctly, and you shall enter the prism. Fail it, and you will fail this course.”

He waits some more.

The riddle comes out. “ _Most dream the likes of me, some hunt for the idea of me, and few will experience me. What am I?_ ”

He tilts his head. His head swims, and his thoughts form together to find the answer. He remembers when he was a child and felt the other children push him around the orphanage until he began pushing back. He remembers the day when he saw the greatest thing ever—the Wizarding World. He remembers the day all of his followers gather around him and swore him as their master and lord. He remembers the fear in the people’s eyes.

But. . .

He suddenly suspects that there are more answers than the usual riddle.

This must be the way the Examiners determine the kind of person one is.

“Power,” he answers.

“Acceptable.” The sphinx watches as a narrow rectangle hole forms in the prism. “Dark in there. But you should know, Thomas Smith, that love, riches, and success could also be the answers.”

He stops himself from sending her some biting retorts.

He only politely nods to her. “Thank you.” Then he steps into the prism and wonders what sort of obstacle the Examiners have come up with.

The prism fills in the hole again, and he is trapped in a box of pure darkness. He whispers, “ _Lumos_!” His wand lights up, and he sees an old man in filthy rags sitting the corner. He stares warily at him, but he asks, “Where is Sebastian?”

The man looks up, his face muddy except for his eyes. “My son? I don’t know.”

He wants to roll his eyes. Another minor test the Examiners love to dish out. This time, they are poking at his skills in interrogation, investigation, and persuasion. He bends down and sits on the dirty floor, ignoring the fact that his pristine grey robes are beginning to grow wet with mud. Staying silent and remembering his childhood days at Hogwarts, he draws out the persuasion skills he has discarded a long time ago.

He softens the edges of his face and says, “Mr. Lee. Your son is in danger from others and to himself. He will keep on hurting if you don’t find help.”

The old man’s brown eyes waters with tears. “You don’t understand. He needs to be safe from you people, you murdering thieves!”

Tom relaxes his shoulder. “Mr. Lee, I understand that you are upset. Sir, I wish that your son is well, but you must understand that the longer he is untreated, the longer he will hurt within. Mr. Lee, I believe you are a man who wants the best for your son. I agree that the Ministry of Magic are not the best group of people who can help your son.”

The surprised old man raises his head, hanging onto Tom’s every word.

“The best group of people for your son is with the Psychic Healers at St. Mungo’s Hospital. They have the resources to help your son. Why else do you think your son is drawing attention to yourself? He needs help. He is crying for it, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it,” he says, pausing to examine the old man’s face.

Still listening. Being wrapped around Tom’s verbal trap. The old man is about to give him a hint—he can feel it.

“If my parents were alive,” he tells him, his throat nearly choking with disgust and such false sorrow, “I would want them to help me from doing such awful things.”

Then the old man begins to cry.

_VIII._

Among the gaggle of Examiners, Hermione Granger watches as the man known as Thomas Smith and also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle walk through the scary but safe cave without using a light. She sees him easily overcome the engorged spiders challenge—which a small handful of wizards and witches always fail every year, because they were too afraid to even move. Ron failed that challenge and nearly got mauled by them.

The sphinx’s choice of question sends her back to her own obstacle course. She asked the exact same question for Hermione as she did to Tom.

“ _Most dream the likes of me, some hunt for the idea of me, and few will experience me. What am I?_ ”

She answered with one word.

 _Love_.

It is unsurprising to hear Riddle answer with _power_. After all, he should know it better than anyone else. He was powerful—for a time.

Then she listens into Riddle’s conversation with the Head Examiner who is playing as an old man. His first few choices of words are brusque and rough, but they quickly turn into sickeningly sweet but also sticky like honey. She realizes that this is exactly what convinced three generation of Slytherins to follow a cruel tyrant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave your reviews. I value them a lot. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate my English teacher now. He told me that my sentences tend to ramble on and on, and I don't gather my thoughts cohesively enough. Don't be surprised if I go into some sort of mini-hiatus when his words register in my brain. :(
> 
> It's a good thing I've written these chapters ahead.

_I._

The old man tells him enough to continue the obstacle course. The glamour washes away from the Examiner’s face, and he remarks, “Very persuasive. Is this how you got all the secrets from the Canadian Minister’s wife?”

Tom smiles slightly. “Reporters’ trade secrets. Sorry.” He takes a long look at the Examiner now. He—no, actually, _she_ —looks incredibly familiar.

Wait.

Then his memories click together and form that connection.

She has tested him before. A long time ago. For his N.E.W.T.s. Her red hair has turn into a bright silver color, and her nose is less than perfect than before. She wears something out of the 70s resembling the horrifying Muggle clothes he’d seen when he wanted to venture out into the world once in a while.

She knocks three times on the prism’s walls and says, “You’re free to go, Mr. Smith.”

_II._

Andrea Sanchez returns to give Thomas Smith—or rather, Tom Riddle—a perfect score on that portion of the obstacle. Hermione doesn’t find herself surprised.

She knows that he is capable of all that charm and more.

_III._

The Examiner—her name is Andrea Sanchez, he remembers, and she tested on Transfiguration over fifty years ago—gives him enough clues to figure out where the fugitive—Sebastian—is. Enough to give a little bit of his personality and to choose the correct paths out of the five laid before him. He looks behind him—at the solid prism—and then glances forward. Five paths separated by white-painted fences stretching endlessly towards the horizon.

One is dark. One is bright. One is green. One is light. And the final one is an ordinary path of the forest. That way is not correct.

No, Sebastian prefers the dark.

The bright pavement road and the white brick road won’t be chosen by the fugitive. It wouldn’t even be the green, grassy path—which seemingly leads to the grasslands.

It is the night Sebastian Lee is drawn to.

Unfortunately, that’s where Tom Riddle finds himself home. He walks down that dark path without a light to guide his way. He doesn’t need one.

_IV._

“He only used Lumos once,” remarks an Examiner. “He is very comfortable in the dark.”

Hermione is not surprised.

The boogeyman has only one friend—his shadow.

_V._

His eyes quickly adjusts the decreasing intensity of light. He begins to explore his other senses, letting himself be more sensitive to the world. Sound tells him about crickets in the distances, hisses announces the presence of snakes among the dark path, and nerves allow him to realize that the group of Examiners were following him—but slower now.

His stomach clenches. There has to be something dangerous coming up. Why else would they begin to slip away from him?

He stops, feeling a little odd jump in his heart. Some part of his brain is telling him to run far, far, far away. He is beginning to suspect what sort of creature is lurking among the path. It’s a telltale whooshing sound. As if there’s a wind coming, but he feels no wind.

“ _Lumos_!” he whispers. The light illuminates for a brief moment—but it gives him enough time to see a black cloak floating four meters in front of him.

Lethifold.

Also called Living Shroud.

It’s a Dark creature. The Ministry expects him to cast a Patronus Charm. He knows other methods, but they aren’t as savory as Potter’s best spell. He shuts his mouth and nonverbally casts a Dark Arts method—which always works with Dementors. He sense some sort of magic at work—but it doesn’t seem like the right one for this spell. He lets his wand lights up, and to his horror, he finds the Lethifold moving even closer to him. Two meters, now.

He figures that there’s only one thing that will scare a Lethifold off. Temporarily.

With as much magic he can gather, he yells out, “Lumos Solem!” His wand is pointed directly at the Lethifold, and the entire world explodes in absolute light. It’s a powerful blast of pure sunlight, unleashing color onto the world. The Examiners behind him shield their eyes from the sudden light, and he watches the shadow fleeing far away from him in agony.

He has a brief moment of pure satisfaction. Lethifold—they hate daylight.

He cuts the spell off and begins tearing down the path. He is not eager to become the Lethifold’s next meal in any shape, way, or form.

In the afterglow of his spell, he is able to see some imprints in the dirt. Footsteps. Fresh ones, and they must be from Sebastian who has already walked his path and is somewhere ahead of him. He quickly speeds up, his hand gripping his wand tightly.

_VI._

Once the sunlight shines onto the world again, she sees color again—and not through the night-vision pair of glasses. Her jaw drops at the sudden change in Tom Riddle’s hairstyle. His hair is completely different. It’s blue and messy now. A bright, light blue in a sort of fun and creative way. It is most likely caused by an accident—or rather, Thrasher.

“It’s odd he doesn’t employ a Patronus Charm to escape the Lethifold,” says one Examiner, making a low grade on his clipboard. “It would be a far more appropriate spell.”

He can’t cast one, she knows.

It’s common knowledge that Dark Wizards never use Patronus Charm, because they don’t need to cast spells of that particular light—the myth of the Patronus Charm requires a pure heart of goodness is complete bogus.

_VII._

The darkness slowly shifts to light, as he goes into another area of the obstacle. He glances around and finds a trunk sitting on the path. He approaches it with cautious. His wand is pointed out towards it—and he watches his surroundings very carefully.

A thing—a very curious thing—pops out of the trunk. It rises slowly as a deer-like creature with great horns rising out of its head; its eyes meet the Dark Lord’s. _Crack!_ It shifts to something else—which looks like a baby or a starving body. _Crack!_ It shifts again to a house elf wielding a whip, but it suddenly shifts again—utterly confused. _Crack!_ It becomes a bleeding diary. But not even that fear stays as Lord Voldemort stares at the Boggart without a single look of fear on his face.

_Crack!_

The Boggart changes, grows, and begins sprouting some long, gray beard. The Dark Lord’s eyebrow arches up as he nearly smiles with glee—and some hesitation. Dumbledore. But not quite.

_Crack!_

The Boggart keeps changing. _Crack!_ To an eye ball rolling off the trunk. _Crack!_ To a hand crawling across the floors. They are not his fears, but they must be someone else’s. He allows himself to take a look at the Examiners, the closest one visibly pale with fright.

He turns his attention back onto the Boggart. It whines a high-pitched noise, and then it shifts one more time. _Crack!_ This time, it becomes a night sky of the darkest black the Dark Lord has ever seen before. Flat as a flatbread in front of him and perpendicular to the horizon. He could mistake it for a circular black chalkboard—or a black hole. There’s no crack, because it does not shift again.

He takes one long look and realizes it. That is his fear.

This is his death.

His fear of nothing.

But the problem is that though he is still afraid of the great oblivion hiding after death—he knows that Thrasher could throw him into that part of hell—he can defeat his fear. Temporarily. Through laughter. With laughter. Laughter to lighten up the world so he can’t feel any bit of fear anymore.

He inhales slowly, looks at the world around him, and cracks the smallest of smile. Because even though he is a guardian angel for a Mudblood—Harry Potter’s Mudblood, to be specific—he has survived that. He has survived death, he has survived his worst nightmares, and he will survive being a guardian angel for Hermione Granger.

He imagines the flat, cloak-like surface of what appears to be oblivion—but really is the Boggart—being torn to shreds of nothing but _Witch Weekly_ magazines. Then he casts the spell. “ _Riddikulus_!”

_VIII._

“A man without strong fears. Or a man who hides his fears very well?” questions an Examiner, who taps his quill against his clipboard. He gives his coworkers a shrug. “But he controls his fears very well. Interesting shape the Boggart takes. Wonder what it is.”

Hermione doesn’t say a thing.

But she has her suspicions.

_IX._

He circles his way around the trunk and hears a twig suddenly snap. Once, then twice. A footstep coming from ahead. Not the Examiners’. Not his either. It has to be the fugitive, Sebastian. He slowly raises his wand in that direction.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

The phoenix wand flies out of his wand hand. He turns around in surprise.

“Raise your hands,” says the running fugitive. His greasy hair is slicked back behind his ears, and his pale eyes are frantic and tinged with madness. “Now!”

Tom eyes the wand pointed straight at him. He takes a step forward, and the fugitive casts an unknown curse straight at his head. In the back of his mind, he writes a note to himself to figure out the working of that spell.

“ _Protego_!” he thinks silently. He quickly throw out his hand. The bluish-purple spell disintegrates harmlessly at the shield forming from the palm of his hand. He quickly makes some quick wrist movements that sends a bright jet of red light—which comes out of his index finger and towards the fugitive. His wand quickly flies back into his hand, and with his wand, he casts a stun spell that knocks Sebastian over and leaves him lying flat on the ground.

He snaps his finger, barely requiring any concentration to do the spell. Ropes quickly wrap around his body and tie him to the nearest tree, dragging him in the forest’s dirt ground.

He glances back at the Examiners, who seem a little stunned by the quickest of the duel. He clutches his wand and corrects his grip. With his hands clasped around his wand and behind his back, he gives the group of wizards in blue robes a little nod.

The Examiner with the timer checks the chock. “One hour, forty-eight minutes, and forty-seven seconds is your time, Mr. Smith. Far better than average, but it is not the record.”

Tom nods curtly. A part of him is curious about the identity of the record holder, but he turns his full attention onto Sanchez.

She looks at her clipboard, and she looks to her right. “Constable Granger? Do you have any comments for your rookie? Anything you would like to point out? Any mistakes we may have not spotted?”

He quickly follows her gaze. Hermione? But he didn’t see her.

Her hair is fixed up in an updo, and a big, black witch’s hat covers up most of her head. Brown eyes dart everywhere—as if to examine the world and to question everything around her. She looks calculatingly at Tom and then says, “Exceptional. Far better than the others I’ve seen, Examiner Sanchez. It looked as if he was breezing through the obstacles. Like the wind.”

There are murmurs of agreement.

Sanchez smiles. “If there is no further questions you want to ask”—she looks at her coworkers with a raised eyebrow—“then we can send Mr. Smith away, so we could calculate his scores. Any questions for Mr. Smith?”

An Examiner runs his nose. “Yes.” He turns to Tom and inquires, “Do you know how to use the Patronus Charm?”

Tom shakes his head. “I’m not very gifted with that spell.”

A female Asian Examiner in an American’s voice says, “You seem very calm throughout the entire obstacle, Mr. Smith. Have you done a similar obstacle to this before?”

“Yes,” he simply answers.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.” Sanchez looks around at the nodding Examiners. “That will be all. We’ll wait for Healer Astrid to look over any possibly injuries. We’ll see you later, Mr. Smith.”

The Examiners quickly Apparite away.

Tom manages to catch the eye of one Hermione Granger before she disappears with a loud and curious popping sound.

_X._

The Examiners crowd around a large conference table and begin to discuss and debate the scores for Thomas Smith. Hermione Granger sits next to Sanchez despite the fact that she has little to no say in the scores Tom Riddle will receive from the Examiners. She highly doubts that the Examiners will kick him off her squad. In fact, they might be tempted to move him to the Department of Mysteries or the Auror Office after seeing that level of skill.

Sanchez bangs her gravel, and the voices of ten other wizards and witches immediately silence themselves. She clears her throat and announces, “We’ll begin grading the scores. The first obstacle is the cave test.”

“Poor,” says the Asian American Examiner, Danielle Park. “He was not afraid of the cave. A little fear would be good. He can’t walk around with that attitude.”

“I believe we shouldn’t count the cave as a test. There’s no possible way we could—” starts another Examiner, holding out his hands and moving them as he speaks.

“He did take some precautions,” points out another Examiner. “He didn’t go into the cave without preparation like what that record holder did—”

“Should we strike the cave test from the obstacle?” quietly suggests Sanchez. She looks expectedly around the room with an arched eyebrow. Seeing every single person nod except for one Examiner, she bangs her gravel and announces, “The cave test will no longer apply to Thomas Smith. We’ll go onto the next test. The spiders.”

“Outstanding,” everyone answers together.

Sanchez says, “The sphinx’s riddle.”

Hermione quickly recalls the question. She can easily remember the way he answers the riddle. The way he lets his single word draw out, the way he says it in an almost revered way, and the even way he immediately knows the answer. _Power_.

“Correct answer,” determines an Examiner. “Outstanding.”

“Yes, put it as Outstanding. He answered the riddle correctly without getting eaten by the sphinx,” points out James Ogden, a senior Examiner. “I say that is enough, and we continue on with the next part of the obstacle. The interrogation trial.”

Everyone nods in agreement.

“Sphinx’s riddle has been ruled as outstanding.” The Head Examiner bangs her gravel again and keeps her eyes on every Examiner in the room. “The interrogation of the fugitive’s father, Mr. Lee. What do you all believe?”

“Rough beginning, excellent ending,” concludes Danielle. She raises a peacock feather at the center of the conference table. “Exceeds Expectations.”

Then comes the other comments:

“Very persuasive.”

“He has a silver tongue.”

Everyone else gives him an O for Outstanding.

Hermione Granger shakes her head. It nearly reminds her of herself. Near perfect scores. She wish she had seen Harry’s examination, because she heard it was so good that they gave him the highest scores possible—perfect scores. All Outstandings. It’s the highest score anyone has ever received.

“Choosing a path,” calls out Sanchez. “What did you all think of that?”

Outstanding again.

Then they come to the most interesting part of his obstacle course. Sanchez bangs her gravel and says, “The Lethifold trial.”

“He didn’t banish it nor did successfully produce a Patronus,” says Danielle, her quill scratching her clipboard with judgmental eyes. “But he did work around it by fleeing away from the Lethifold. Acceptable.”

“Creative use of a modifier,” notes another Examiner.

“But not the best we have ever seen.”

“Most of what we’ve seen are the ones who didn’t even recognize what a Lethifold is,” says Hermione, speaking out at last. Everyone turns to watch her speak. “I say he gets a grade above Acceptable.”

“Miss Granger,” says Sanchez, nodding at her. “We’ll take your opinion. What are your final scores?” She listens quietly as some “Trolls” and “Dreadfuls” are passed around. But no one offers Tom Riddle above an Exceeds Expectations. It’s a bit difficult, because out of those who did pass the small test, they used the Patronus Charm and a successful one at that.

In the end, everyone decides on a Poor as an overall score. Hermione wonders if it will kill Tom that he isn’t perfect for once. After all, he was one of the brightest students who has ever walked the halls of Hogwarts with medals, awards, and all.

“The Boggart test.”

Once again, discussions are made.

The staunchest Examiner against Tom Riddle notes, “The Boggart provided an inaccurate reading. It couldn’t decide which of his fears were the worst.”

“Or perhaps he was truly fearless. Or near fearless,” says another Examiner, tapping her blood-red fingernails against her equally red lips. “Courage and all.”

Hermione Granger wants to bow her head and laugh. The last thing he would be is called “brave,” “fearless,” and all of their synonyms. He is a Slytherin. The very characteristics of him that defines him also defines his own house. And synonyms of Gryffindor does not define Tom Riddle—the Dark Lord, the craziest Dark Wizard of all time, and all the other names he had.

“But he did do all of the necessary work,” points out Sara Danvers, tilting her head and raising a blonde eyebrow. Her blue eyes dart around at the nodding faces. “He said the spell. He moved on. That should be more than enough to get him an Acceptable.”

Ten minutes later, they finally narrow it down an Exceeds Expectation.

“The duel,” says Sanchez.

“Careless,” says Danielle, tapping her finger on her chin. “He let his wand get out of his hand.” A pause. “But he could do wandless magic. Very well, too. I wonder what would happen if he had to fight a prolonged duel without a wand. How would he do?”

“Outstanding, Danielle?” asks Sanchez, a wrinkled hand writing on a spare sheet of parchment. “Yes or no?”

“Outstanding,” she confirms.

The next minutes or so becomes a chorus of “Outstandings.”

“Overall score is Exceeds Expectation. Leaning towards Outstanding,” Sanchez informs, looking around the table and then back at her calculations. “What was his time?”

“One hour, forty-eight minutes, and forty-seven seconds is his time.”

Sanchez tells Hermione, “Miss Granger, your rookie has achieved an Outstanding. A ninety-one percent on this exam. Would you like a formal examination report to be written up?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Then we’ll send it to you at the end of the week. Good day, Miss Granger.” She bangs the gravel with the sound of a final note and announces, “Session has been adjoined.”

_XI._

Waiting in the medical examination room, Tom sits on the bed and waits. His eyes wander around the room, and he glares at the Witch Weekly magazines sitting on the chair in the corner. He tightens his grip around his wand. One single word and it is obliterated from this world. It would be so satisfying to see that stupid magazine ripped to shreds. Like what happened to the Boggart. Ripped to Witch Weekly magazine shreds.

He looks at the mirror above the sink and frowns at what appears to be something blue. He moves closer to the mean and stares directly at his face—or rather, his hair.

His hair. Which is now in a messy state of bright blue hair. The same color of those bubblegum balls Wizarding children love to chew.

It is only a second later when he yells, “ _Reductor_!”

The pieces of _Witch Weekly_ magazines flutters around the room. Like confetti.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to read and review. I'm going to sit in the corner and eat ice cream. Damn, English teacher. Wrote only a paragraph to comment on my essay and managed to shred apart the very foundation of what I had written.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What??? UPDATING again? Twice in a day? Yeah. I feel really angry at the 17,000 words in the word count. I want it to read 20k or more. So, yes. I'm a freaking weirdo.

_I._

She opens the bland medical examination room’s door to see pieces of something raining down on his head. She could feel the slightest fear—yet also fears the slightest of awareness. She glances up—starting from his dragon hide boots to the standard black testing robes to the white collar of his shirt. Then she meets the dark eyes of the most feared Dark wizard of all times—the man who used to be known as Lord Voldemort.

With electric blue hair.

She chuckles a little. It is a shame that she must keep his true identity a secret. Young Lord Voldemort with blue hair. Or how about young Lord Voldemort with pink hair? Both of those faces are far from the frightening snake-faced non-human creature she saw six years ago back at the Battle of Hogwarts. If only she has a camera. . .

The door closes with only a click.

Hermione Granger realizes one thing:

She is alone with one of the feared wizards of all time.

Her mouth moving faster than usual, she remarks, “Nice hair.” As soon as she speaks those words, she wish she could take them back. It is something more like what Harry or Ron would say. Perhaps they were rubbing off on her? More likely Ron was. Only Ron would have audacity to say a huge _fuck you_ to the Dark Lord himself regardless of whether or not he was about to be killed.

You-Know-Who—or rather, his normal name, Tom Riddle—scowls. His nose creases a little in absolute disgust, and he warns her, “Not one more word.”

A little elf suddenly pops in the examination room. Hermione blinks at his strange outfit. She has never seen a House elf wearing a suit or has she seen one with that degree of madness and sadism in his eyes—excluding Kreacher, of course. He wags a short, sharp finger at Tom and says, “She could say more, and you can’t do a single thing about it.”

Tom looks even more furious. “Thrasher.”

She gives him a long look. Is he. . . pouting?

He glowers at her and indignantly mutters, “Dark Lords don’t pout.”

_II._

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” says Thrasher, a sick grin on his face. “Meet Hermione Jean Granger, the Muggleborn you will be protecting for the rest of eternity.”

Tom is not impressed. Now that he has a much closer look at the Mudblood who has been part of the crew who took him down, he realizes that her hair is particularly amazing to look at. It’s beginning to uncurl from its no-nonsense bun, unraveling into some sort of entropy. He distantly remembers Draco Malfoy’s mind ranting on and on about Hermione Granger in his fifth year at Hogwarts, and he had half a mind to curse him into oblivion—if and only if it wasn’t for the fact that he would be left with no decent, potential spies in Hogwarts.

But _her_ mind. . .

Now, that nearly alleviates the fact of her sorry blood. Slightly protected from intruders—not at full strength. Also, she wasn’t fast enough for his intrusion. He manages to take a peek around—unable to see much of her memories however. Just thoughts. Still, he can see enough to get a feel of her mind’s structure. It’s neat and organized. Logical with a sense of determination and the tiniest bit of pride. Brash, hostile, surprise, _fear_ , and amusement because of _him_ , yes. But she is not the worst Mudblood he has ever seen before.

“You read my mind,” she says with surprise, her chocolate-colored eyes wide open. There is the slightest bit of curiosity that he finds very flattering.

“Obviously,” he snarks. “How else could I answer that question? Divination?” He sneers at that thought, remembering his quest for that prophecy only a couple years ago. Or is it eight years, now? Being dead has changed many things.

“Wonderful,” Thrasher mutters. He then claps his hands together and says, “Hermione Granger, I believe that my master has already given you. . . what you need to know.”

Tom interrupts, “What does she need to know?”

He attempts to read her mind for whatever the devil has said to her—only to scream at a loud, piercing feedback. He clutches the sides of his head. The last time he has ever felt like this was when the Horcrux—his Horcrux—was destroyed by Potter and his friends.

The devil’s servant smirks. “Yes. Try that again. Attempt to see what Hermione Granger has learned from the devil and all you will hear is something similar to what the Muggles call it, sound feedback. Lovely, isn’t it? It is a shame the devil didn’t want the noise of fingernails on chalk. It is music, the finest opera, to my ears.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he moans, bending over his stomach. His mouth opens—perhaps to throw up or perhaps to scream.

“Try. I’m sure the punishment will be far worse for you. Who knows?” Thrasher looks aside to the wall and whispers, “Maybe Hermione might get some sort of perk? I can assure you, Tom, that you won’t like it very much.”

He can already tell that Thrasher is getting himself worked up. Last time that happened, Thrasher made him wandlessly write a thousand or so articles about Wizarding marriages between significant and insignificant individuals/couples. His hand is still sore from that labor.  

The elf-like creature smiles at Hermione. He gestures towards the former Dark Lord and tells her, “He is all yours. Make sure he gets to his interview with HR.”

Hermione nods. “Of course, I will.”

Thrasher adds, “I will appear if you need me. Otherwise, I will check in on the two of you periodically. Behave yourself, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I’ll see you later, Hermione Granger.”

“Bye, Thrasher,” she says.

The devil’s servant disappears without a single sound.

_III._

She doesn’t get a second to truly talk to him. A representative from the Ministry of Magic’s HR decides to pop through the door at that moment. If she doesn’t know any better, she would say that Tom looks mildly relieved by the appearance of the interviewer.

But that can’t be, could it?

She stands at the corner of the medical room until the male interviewer in the standard white robes tells her she needs to leave in order to give a proper interview to Mr. Riddle.

She nods and takes her leave.

She would just have to talk to him at a different time.

A proper conversation.

_IV._

The interviewer sits down on the doctor’s stool in the corner and gestures to Tom to sit down. Tom does—albeit reluctantly. He wrinkles as he makes some crinkling noise on the disposable bed cover. He folds his hands on his lap and waits for the first question.

With blond hair sticking all directions, the interviewer adjusts his white collar and briskly nods at him. “I’m Interviewer 40123. I will take your post-entry interview, and then I will assign you further Ministry credentials. You should be aware my memory of this interview will be taken and given to the Ministry’s files for further processing and for records. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

“No.” He notes that despite the somewhat messy appearance the interviewer has, he is still a professional. A messy professional.

With memories that will be in the Ministry’s records room.

“State your name, age, birthdate, and hometown for this interview.”

He wants to roll his eyes. Regardless, he says, “My name is Thomas Smith. I’m currently 26 years old, and I was born in December 31 of 1978. I was born in a Muggle hospital at Falmouth, England. But for the last year or so, I lived in Bulgaria for my reporter’s job. Before that, I lived in Los Angeles, California, United States.”

The interviewer nods, not taking down a single note. He raises his head with politeness. “Why did you want a job at the Ministry of Magic?”

He supposes he has Thrasher to thank him for this. He has learned most of the questions and how to correctly respond to them in hell.

“I wasn’t feeling challenged enough at _Witch Weekly_. I wanted to be a reporter, because it allowed me to investigate and unravel mysteries. But instead, I was pushed into writing gossip columns and wedding announces for a few years. In Bulgaria, I wrote slightly political articles, but they never pushed me towards the limit. The only exception was a particular article on the Canadian Minister of Magic,” he answers smoothly.

“Did your find your physical examination to be challenging?”

“More challenging than my reporter’s job as a whole.”

The interviewer nods. “Is challenge the reason why you applied to a general position at the Ministry? You should have applied to a single department which you would find interesting.”

Tom falters a little. “I wasn’t sure if my N.E.W.T. scores were satisfying enough for the Department of Mysteries or the Auror Office.”

“What do you dislike in people?”

He can feel his answer. The not-so-great answer which Thrasher severely disapproves of. He hates idiocy. He hates stupid questions like these. He hates Muggles. He hates anyone better than him. He hates the snobbish Purebloods. There isn’t much that he actually likes.

“I really dislike the ones who procrastinate. That’s all. They could be rude, they could be ignorant, they could be sugary sweet, but as long as they procrastinate their work, I don’t like them,” he replies.

The interviewer blinks. “Alright. Let me ask you this question. I want you to carefully consider this. Very, very hard. What is your greatest failure, and what did you learn from it?”

Now this is one question Thrasher hasn’t prepared him for. He puts his mind together and considers the question—exactly as the interviewer want him to do. Memories flicker by, and he could see everything he has done—and fail to do—running right before his eyes. Failures. Failures. Failures.

What is his greatest failure?

Lord Voldemort would have hissed and said that he is perfectly perfect as he is, thank you very much. Lord Voldemort doesn’t accept anything less than perfection. Lord Voldemort is nothing short of perfect. In his mind, Lord Voldemort is perfect and a god and could do nothing wrong. Any errors he has made were due to others—such as the meddling actions of one Albus Dumbledore and the idiotic quality in his sycophants.

But he—Tom Marvolo Riddle—is not perfect. He has perfection to stretch for—but it is the perfection of a mask, a sort of shield to prevent the outside world from seeing Lord Voldemort underneath.

“Arrogance. Pride.” He lets the last word slips out with a voice full of the most sincere-sounding regret. “Greed. Those are my failures. I let them take control of me until it was too late.”

The interviewer tilts his head. “I’m sensing another thought you would like to mention, Thomas. Care to elaborate on that?”

“But I was pulled back. Given a second chance,” he finishes. At first, it sounds like a lucrative idea, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. A second chance. A second chance to be in this world. A second chance for everything.

All under the devil’s eye and nose.

“Can you cast the Patronus Charm?”

“No.”

“If you tried?”

“I can’t.”

The interviewer leans closer, as if sensing a rather juicy story. “Why not? What makes you unable to cast one of the most powerful defensive spells against the Dark Arts?”

Because he’s a Dark Wizard and has no use for it. Why else?

Of course, Thrasher would have his neck and all if he answers something like that. He is more than sure that is one of his rules—one of the things he can’t do—because it will tip off the fact that Thomas Smith is an alias for a certain Dark Wizard.

Instead, he answers with something else. He glances away and looks off to the distance. “I never had any happy memories throughout the decades I’ve been alive. I was never a happy child. I was miserable, alone, and lonely. The happiest day was when I picked up my wand, but when I tried using the Patronus Charm with that memory, it evidently wasn’t strong enough. I think I’m not a very happy enough individual to find a good memory that would be sufficient for the Patronus Charm.”

To Tom’s ears, his answer sounds logical and appropriately emotional. And from the interviewer’s interested and concerned face, it has passed and sailed through inspection.

“Still, your creativity and control has impressed your Examiners,” he replies to Thomas. “This memory would not be viewed by any others with the exception of a supervisor, who will confirm your position at the Ministry. I will not remember this memory, Mr. Smith. So if you see me in the hallways and at meetings occasionally, don’t bother saying your greetings.”

Tom furrows his eyebrows and strokes his wand. “What do you mean by that?”

“The Ministry of Magic is very protective of their employees’ personal lives and such. Interviews conducted must be protected and sealed into a very, very hidden file, which will be pulled out in case of some sort of emergency. Good day, Mr. Smith.”

He stares out into the distance. Distractedly, he replies back, “Good day.”

_V._

Hermione’s hand feels terribly sore after penning the fifth report this afternoon. It just happens there is a rise in crime in Inverness. Of all the things that have to happen, she thinks. And it has to happen right when a certain Dark Lord is lurking around on the devil’s leash. It’s a good thing he has a leash. Otherwise, she will have to figure out someway—

She breaks her quill in half and curse.

She will have to figure a way to stop Voldemort in case he breaks free. The problem always is that she needs insurance. Just like how she always has insurance whenever Rita Skeeter “comes out of retirement” and decides to ask a few prodding questions here and there with that annoying quill of hers. But what would serve as an excellent insurance?

Information?

Perhaps. But what does he want to know? The people who he betrayed? There is a load of fat chance he will hang around and obey her when he’s free.

His broken Horcruxes?

Unfortunately, they are destroyed to little pieces. Fortunate or unfortunately, those pieces have been placed into the Wizarding University’s Dark Arts research department. Thankfully, the public doesn’t know, but Hermione is sure that it is not the perfect leverage to hold over his head. More likely, he will try to obliterate her for reminding him for his loser status.

She simply will have to find a weapon he would really want.

Or she could wrangle an Unbreakable Vow out of his lips somehow.

It is like what Ron said a long time ago. Fat chance.

Clicking her heels on the marble floors, Kath suddenly drops a thick stack of parchment scrolls onto Hermione’s desk. She plants her elbows onto the cubicle wall and gives a lavished smirk at her. “You should know that I managed to finish all of the reports.”

“No, you didn’t. You got Parkinson to finish half of them. Then you slept and wrote a quarter of those reports. All the others came from the rest of the squad,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I know. Because I can recognize that handwriting Parkinson always gets when his wandhand gets sore. You know he always makes his _i_ s look like _t_ s when he writes non-stop. With or without his wand.”

Kath leans a little closer with sweet blue eyes blinking at her boss. With false concern, she asks, “But does that mean that Parkinson has to do a huge rewrite?”

Hermione sighs. “No. He doesn’t have to. All he needs to make sure that the secretaries and my bosses downstairs can read it when they begin to make copies. You should give have Parkinson make them all a key or a legend of some sort.”

The constable scowls and taps her foot. “You have to be kidding me. It is eight. At night. I have sleep I need to catch up on, and the reports are due in—”

She nods. “I’m fully aware of deadlines. But you have to make your notes make some sort of sense. Especially for the secretaries who will be transcribing whatever you wrote down on your scratch parchment which you are now trying to pass off as an official report. At least you got the paper work down right.”

Kath picks up the entire stack of reports and then begins to walk away. But she stops. She makes a curious, cat-like tilt with her head and turns around. If she is indeed a cat, her tail would be sticking up and almost waving for attention. “What about the rookie? Is he going through the classes?”

Hermione rubs her eyes. “Classes?”

“Filing paperwork and writing reports. That class all the Ministry employees almost always take. Especially the secretaries,” Kath murmurs thoughtfully. Her eyes rise up back towards Hermione. “But will he be in one of those classes? We could always use another set of writing hands. The reports are backing up ever since De La Cruz left. Without a notice.”

She then moves her hand a little up. Her forehead. De La Cruz is such an arse, she thinks. The constable left without hardly any sort of warning, and ever since, the forty-seven files and reports De La Cruz was supposed to file is split into groups and sent to various members of Hermione’s squad. In the back of her mind, she hopes that De La Cruz chokes on a tiny umbrella in those little fruity alcoholic drinks he loves to have at the Muggle bars.

“Vacation,” she mutters. “A long, long vacation.”

“Hermione?” Kath raises her eyebrow. “So what? Is he in one of those classes?”

“I’ll take a look, Kath. Continue writing those reports. We are ten reports behind. You need to tell Parkinson to not forget the petty theft statistics in his reports. He always forgets those.” She stands up, walks towards the lift, gets in, and realizes that she has just voluntarily went to see the Dark Lord.

She shakes her head. Now is not the time to go crazy over the fact that the Dark Lord is right there, and she can’t do a single thing—not even little tiny pushing spell that will send him off the cliff or someplace tall—to stop him. It may not be written in her rules, but she is not stupid enough to do that. Still. . .

There are some things she could do. Like applying transfer to the Department of Mysteries and the Auror Office. Unfortunately, Riddle is not likely to transfer with his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s scores. He simply has to prove his worth to the Ministry and then she could apply transfer to the other departments and offices.

“Basement Level Five,” says a cool voice. “Medical—”

Hermione walks out immediately, and she heads towards the medical examination room she has last seen Riddle in.

“Constable Granger,” calls out a Healer. He waves his hand and says, “Mr. Smith has left the premise and will be going home for the day.”

Her hand inches away from the doorknob. “You sure? I have many things—”

“HR already said that he needs to take a few classes before he is sent to your squad officially. Paperwork and all that sort, Constable.” The Healer wipes his hands on a spare of white cloth. “Do you need anything else?”

“Did he go through his interview?”

“He has.”

“Thank you, Healer. . .”

“Patterson,” he fills in.

Hermione nods. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review. Read and review. Reviews make me feel far better. I honestly don't feel much for kudos. Sorry. :(
> 
> Also, you may or may have not realized that this fic is slow (plot-wise). Yes, the exposition is unnecessary long, but I feel better with it.


	9. Chapter 9

_I._

He is going to murder the entire HR department. He swears on Merlin that whoever made him go through these stupid classes would have their head on a pike. After sticking their heads on a pike, he will cast a preservation spell which would allow their heads to last far longer than—

“Mr. Smith, excellent report,” says the lecturer. She carefully leans over his shoulder with an approving expression. “Very well done. I would expect pristine paperwork and reports from you. But you shouldn’t do it so well. Your squad members will throw their report assignments at you.” She gives him a long, teasing—but not flattering or flirtatious—wink and then kindly removes herself from his presence.

He looks down at his practice report and interiorly groans. It is annoying how he must take a long statement from a witness to a crime and then transcribe it to a crime report. Paperwork. This is why he had Thickness take over the Ministry.

The lecturer stands in the front of the small class of twelve and says, “There is another incident. You all know that sexual harassment is a crime. To properly file a sexual harassment file, one must go to HR and then complain—”

There is a few chuckles. Tom is not one of them.

She waves her dainty pale hand with a big grin on her face. “Well, that is not true. But if you are ever in a case of sexual harassment with another Ministry employee, HR department would be your solution along with approaching one member from the Auror Office. They will take your case from there. But for civilians, whether Muggle or Wizarding, a blank sexual harassment file would have a purple folder and several forms within. Would you please all take out that purple folder you have?”

He rolls his eyes back when the lecturer isn’t looking. This is the most boring thing he has ever needed to do. It reminds him of the time at Hogwarts when a fight broke out in the corridor, and he must file a few papers, because one of the boys in the fight went into a magical coma due to some misshapen spell. Thank Merlin Dumbledore was the one who filled out the bulk of the paperwork.

He finds the purple folder and finds the blank forms inside. Slowly but meticulously and reluctantly, he begins to file a form for the fictional Miss Sarah Banks who has a stalker for approximately nine months. The stalker has invaded her bedroom and left his underwear in her bed.

It is a very disturbing case.

His Death Eaters would never do anything like this. They would outright kill her. Maybe torture her a little first. And then kill her.

He sighs, blinks, and wonders if this has truly became his life. There is a part of them that would much rather write wedding articles than boring paperwork—which gets repetitive once someone does it so many times.

**Subject Name: Sarah Banks**

**Type: Sexual Harassment, Stalking**

His quill hovers, and he yawns. A cup of tea would be nice, he thinks offhandedly.

_II._

It is the next, next, next, next, next Monday when Thomas Smith has officially been accepted as part of Hermione’s squad. He has gone through training, learned proper procedure, and he is stated by all of his instructors to be “a great pleasure to work with” along with countless other flattering adjectives. Hermione doubts he would be “a great pleasure” once they discover he is Lord Voldemort.

He is lucky he doesn’t have to go through the physical training. After his spectator examination and his second, equally excellent examination, the Ministry has determined Thomas to be acceptably fit and would go through the quarterly training for her squad, which is coming up next month.

She is a little disappointed that she doesn’t get him sooner. There is always a certain amount of paperwork the squad always has to complete. Conveniently, there’s always a list of crimes to report. The Ministry doesn’t approve of what happened the last time her squad had “nothing to do.” Or rather, Hermione’s boss’s boss doesn’t approve.

That was back in the time she was only a squad member—which was a long time ago. She can’t believe it has been so long yet it seems like it is only yesterday when she joined the Ministry a year after the battle at Hogwarts where Voldemort fell to his death.

She brushes away a strand of her hair and begins to pen an employee evaluation on Kath. It’s one of those things the Ministry loves to do every year or so.

“Miss Granger?” says a soft voice.

His words irritates her in a vague way. Tightening her grip on the white quill, she corrects him, “It is _Constable_ Granger. But you are a member of the squad, so you call me Hermione.”

“My apologies, Hermione.” He clears his throat from behind her. “Do you always do work while talking to others? Or it is simply me, Hermione?”

She silently curses to herself and erects her mental barriers against him. It has been a long time since she has gone up against someone with the skill levels of Voldemort. She spins around in her chair, and she pauses for a moment at his appearance—nearly dropping her jaw at the carefully groomed hair, the black standard robes of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrols, the slightest smirk playing on his lips, and the endearingly false innocence shining in his eyes. She realizes that he looks like every other rookie, and it is the best mask of pure deception and lies she has ever seen on a Dark Wizard’s—or actually, anyone’s—face.

His smirk widens a bit. “Like what you see, Hermione?” Her name is deceptively beautiful when spoken by his voice, and it takes a microsecond for her to snap out of whatever trance his beauty has her in.

“No,” she snaps angrily, her hair curling upon itself and unraveling to its true wild nature. “I don’t. You know where De La Cruz’s desk is. Why don’t you go there and start filling out the reports?”

The smirk turns into an unamused frown. “I would rather not. Give me something else to do.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Subtle, aren’t you?” she snarks. “Clearly, most of your persuasion is gone and I think ripping your soul into a few dozen pieces didn’t help your qualities. I’m your boss. You do your reports like everyone else. You pull your own weight.” A pause. “And you don’t go around demanding things out of other people. I’m not your lackey. It is a different world, Thomas. Either you adjust to this world, or it will change you. It doesn’t matter.” Then she swivels her chair back towards that boring report she needs to finish by tomorrow morning.

It takes every bit of her nerve to not reach for her wand. She has just dissed the Dark Lord. Dissed him. In the face.

She is more than pleased when she hears him walk away. She smiles, pulls out the top drawer in her desk, and glances at the title at the top of the thick packets she received from HR department.

**Department Transfer Request: Magical Law Enforcement Patrols Office of Department of Magical Law Enforcement to Department of Mysteries**

She taps her chin with thoughtfulness. The Department of Mysteries would be a far more appropriate place for her—and especially for her guardian angel, Tom Riddle. It would kill him to feel the urge to save everyone whenever some sort of Dark Magic or complex magic tries to blow up the entire Ministry Headquarters. She only needs to find a way to manipulate the devil’s curse on him.

Easy.

_III._

As soon as he arrives at De La Cruz’s old desk, it feels like there is a parade of parchment and reports flying in and out. He wants to kill whoever is making him write all of these reports about burglaries, disturbances, sightings of strange magical creatures, blathering Muggles ranting about the Wizarding World when they shouldn’t know a thing, and such. He could feel a headache coming on, and he can tell that this job is far worse than working in retail.

Also, Hermione Granger. She needs to stop assigning him with so many reports to write. The deadlines are awful, and he can easily picture Thrasher sharpening his knife with a mad grin if he slips too behind in his work.

“ _Fail to keep up? Well, I’ll show you what falling behind really looks like_!” Then Thrasher would probably move behind him, break open the back of his shirt and robes, and begin to whip him without any form of mercy and such. He can easily imagine Thrasher being far more creative than whatever his mind can come up with.

He sips his tiny cup of tea and glimpses at the clock. Four, and he should be taking a break and drinking tea with the rest of the squad, but he knows that if he spends a single minute out of his desk, he is going to fall behind.

He rubs his eyes and begins to read the next statement and report from a victim. Apparently, she was robbed for her money and she wants to be compensated—by anyone. In her writings, she sounds to be too happy to meet with someone in a Wizarding Civil Court and leech money off of that poor bloke.

Tom sighs. He is too underpaid to deal with all of this shit.

_IV._

**INCIDENT REPORT FILED BY: DANA JACKSON**

**CRIME CODE: 2893-B/PETTY THEFT**

**DATE: 19 JULY 2004**

**REPORT SUMMARY: AT APPROXIMATELY FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, DANA JACKSON (AMERICAN CITIZEN) WALKED TO HER FRIEND’S HOME AT 3 RD STREET AND HAD A WAND POINTED AT HER. A WIZARD OF ABOUT MID-20S TO LATE 20S DEMANDED HER COIN PURSE. JACKSON RELUCTANTLY HANDED IT OVER. JACKSON HAS SUBMITTED HER REPORT AT SIX THIRTY-THREE IN THE MORNING AT THE LOCAL OFFICE OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT.**

**INJURIES: NONE**

**CASE ASSESSOR: THOMAS SMITH (INVERNESS SQUAD)**

**REPORT WRITTEN: 19 JULY 2004**

**ATTACHMENTS: FULL REPORT (2 FEET PARCHMENT) AND COPY OF MISS JACKSON’S AMERICAN PASSPORT**

**ADDITIONAL NOTES: MISS JACKSON REFUSES TO LEAVE THE PREMISE OF THE LOCAL OFFICE UNTIL SHE HAS SEEN THE FACE OF HER ATTACKER AND SEEN HIM “HUNTED DOWN LIKE THE [EXPLETIVE] DOG HE IS.” SHE WANTS “EVERY SINGLE [EXPLETIVE] FIBER OF HIS STUPID AND DANGEROUS AND UGLY BEING INTO THE BEST [EXPLETIVE] WIZARDING PRISON THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC HAS TO OFFER” OR ELSE “SHE WILL FILE A LAWSUIT AGAINST [EXPLETIVE] EVERYONE ON THIS DISGUSTING [EXPLETIVE] PLANET INCLUDING HER [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] ATTACKER, THE LOCAL DEPARTMENT OF [EXPLETIVE] MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AND ITS [EXPLETIVE] EMPLOYEES, AND THE MONEY-LEECHING, UP-TO-NO-GOOD, [EXPLETIVE] IRS.”**

**THE IRS IS AN AMERICAN TAX-COLLECTING AGENCY.**

**RECOMMENDATION:**

**THE CASE APPEARS TO BE A LOW LEVEL THREAT. HAVE MISS JACKSON SIT IN WITH A SKETCH ARTIST, OBTAIN BETTER DESCRIPTIONS OF THE MAN, AND SEE IF THERE ARE ANY OTHER SIMILAR THEFTS IN NEARBY AREAS OF WHERE MISS JACKSON WAS ROBBED. I AM PASSING THE CASE OFF TO INVERNESS DISTRICT A PATROL SQUAD. —TS (INVERNESS SQUAD)**

_V._

She admits to herself that she is fairly impressed by the quality in Tom’s reports. Despite expecting him to slack off like Ron or perhaps to have a terrible scrawl and be paraphrase with little details like Harry, he is surprisingly thorough with details and he is astonishingly meticulous—when she ignores the slightly sarcastic tone he carries in every other or so reports. It actually reminds her of her own reports, and she distantly recalls the former leader of the Inverness Squad who made a comment at Hermione about her own “annoyingly long but strikingly detailed reports of crimes that don’t need that many details and just _has_ to take over two feet’s worth of parchment.”

She really hates office politics. It took her a while to suck up to him.

Examining one of his reports, she reads through it with a careful eye. He has been trained well in the entire month of classes. If he isn’t her guardian angel, then she would be worried that he was looking around to replace her or something.

Of course, he is not only her guardian angel but also one of the most feared Dark Wizards of all times.

“Hermione,” says the devil in question. His hands clasp itself in front of him, and he is the picture of a perfect Ministry employee. “It’s nine now. I will be leaving for the day. Do you have anything else for me to do?”

Hermione turns around and gives him an once-over. It is too easy to forget that there is one of the worst Dark Wizards in history when he is hiding behind a sharp, beautiful form with a jaw-dropping face and neatly parted hair paired with a pristine and pressed black robes and a wiry and lean physique. It is not fair how evil could look so good. It is not fair to forget how ugly the true devil could be when he hides behind the best of beauty.

“No. Thank you, Thomas. Great first day.” The words fall easily from her lips.

He gives her a look of irritation. “No. It is not a great first day.” Then he shakes out his writing hand and turns his back on her to go home.

_VI._

He suddenly wakes up, pushes himself off his bed, and presses a hand at his forehead. A migraine. He nearly has forgotten what it feels like. It has been like. . . months since he has gotten one—and that was because of. . .

Granger.

A tongue clicks. “You better hurry, Tommy boy. You might miss her if you don’t leave soon enough.” Thrasher winks at him from the desk in the corner of the bedroom and drinks a yellowish flute of something that appears to be champagne. “I advise you to use the Disillusionment Charm. You don’t want the Aurors to see you and prevent you from protecting her properly, do you?”

He grits his teeth and hisses, “How am I supposed to know where she is?”

“Let pain be your guide,” Thrasher answers, grinning. “I’m sure you would figure it out in time, Tom Marvolo Riddle. You’re a clever one.”

Then Thrasher disappears without a sound.

He frowns, his hand clutching his head with desperation. How could pain be his guide? It seems to be everywhere. He groans as it increases in strength. It isn’t as bad as the day Hermione rescued herself, but it seems—or rather, it _feels_ —as if the threat of danger is increasing relative to Hermione. He steps back, stumbling on his own feet.

Then the pain decreases. Just slightly before growing away. He groans a little more and crawls southwest. The pain dulls and allows him to think a little clearer.

That is it.

Southwest. That is where she is.

He concentrates and begins to Apparate southwest towards her. He quickly moves back and forwards until he finds her approximate location. Under his breath, he mutters, “ _Talpa_.” The Disillusionment Charm gives him a rather watery feeling over his head, which then drips down towards the rest of his body. A successful, wandless cast.

He peers around at his location. A rooftop of some Muggle building in a Muggle city, he realizes. He furrows his eyebrow, pain momentarily forgotten. Then it increases again, jabbing him right in the brain, as if yelling at him to stop admiring the view or something along those lines.

The moon casts a dim light over the skyline, and he narrows his eyes towards the place his gut is screaming at him to look. Over there, right down there at the odd statue of a solemn woman with closed eyes are bright, multi-colored flashes of light. Spells. Curses. Jinxes. Charms.

He quickly moves and Apparate again.

He stands at the sideline, wand out. He carefully stays out of the dangerous areas and critically examines the battle scene in front of him. The sleeves of her pants wet with fountain water, Hermione Granger hides herself behind the woman’s shield as she occasionally fires spells at the eight attackers bent on destroying her into nothing. An Inverness squad member lies face-down in the middle of the chaos of the battle, and he could already feel the dread coming up his spine.

Where is everyone else?

He spies blond hair in the distance. A squad member is putting up some heavy anti-Muggle wards while ducking some nasty jinxes. He rolls his eyes. That is the most stupid action anyone could ever take in a middle of this sort of onslaught.

He casually stuns an attacker and sends him flying into another. The rush of power flows through his blood, and he smiles—unsurprisingly similar to a predator’s smug grin when corning a delicious and stupid prey. With the grace of a ballerina, he perfectly deflects the Torture Curse at a precise angle—which whirls into a masked attacker in the back of his head. He takes a microsecond to admire the fierce writhing of the man and smirks. He may not be able to cast Dark Arts, but it doesn’t mean he can use the resources and opportunities around him.

Hermione Granger takes the advantage of the distraction Tom provides, summoning five powerful, curving, and thick jets of water from the fountain to slam into the remaining attackers simultaneously. They fall to the ground in absolute surrender.

Then there is silence.

She breathes loudly, catching her breath. Then she pulls herself up and meets Tom again. Her eyes widen at his presence, and she says, “You. . .”

His eyebrow arches in surprise. “You can still see me?”

She nods. “A little blurry,” she remarks faintly.

He touches his forehead. The migraine is gone. He steps a little back, and seeing Kath run towards Hermione, he says, “I’ll see you the morning, Granger. I hope you don’t get yourself into any other sort of trouble.”

Then he Disapparate as quietly as possible.

But he doesn’t miss her rebuke.

“ _Oh, please sod off_.”

_VII._

He leans his back against the door, breathing in and out. His alert mind begins to put together the information he saw just ten minutes ago. He looks over and draws upon the memories of that too brief battle with the black-clad attackers. In the back of his mind, he wonders why they are attacking Hermione and her squad and makes a mental note to find out more information in the morning.

He laughs a little when he recalls the brilliant flash of _Crucio_ flying into his shield and then flying into one of Hermione’s attackers. Redirection of a Dark Curse is not the same as _casting_ a Dark Curse. He files that tidbit for another day.

He pushes away from his front door and falls onto the bed—still in his pajamas. He bangs his head on his pillow—which is not hard enough at all. He can’t believe he didn’t change his clothes. Pajamas. . . which are—or rather, _were_ —white and clean and. . .

His mind draws upon another memory, another scene.

He imagines the way her hand flexes and flicks, and he could easily picture that motion in his sleep. Her command of a variation of a certain water charm makes him smile slightly. It is nice to see someone who is not an idiot and creative and cunning on her own—regardless of how unfortunate her blood status may be.

But. . .

It is a beautiful variation.

He turns over and shuts his eyes.

His lips move to form a phrase, but he does not speak aloud.

_Oh, please sod off._

She somehow got the last words.

_VIII._

The next morning, he finds out that the gang of worthless thieves and vandalizers who attacked the small night patrol team is called the Dashing Rogues. He has half a mind to make them not so dashing. And to stick them into a very, very smelly place—the sewers.

Thinking of such happy thoughts, he whistles as he pens the most boring crime report about a petty theft concerning a six-year-old girl who realized the disappearance of her Princess—a red, orange, and black rooster, which has the misfortune of being an expensive creature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review. And throw in constructive criticism.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, what? I have updated so soon? Yep. And yes. I am still building the world and trying to get those two idiots together. But I'm feeling so uninspired. Ouch.
> 
> And I'm trying to write myself out of a plot hole. Grr. . . 
> 
> Would you guys notice if I change something in the previous chapters???

_I._

The memories have been churning around in her mind for the last two days. She supposes it is not surprising for him to show up in the dead of the night and give her the chance to save herself by making a small but powerful distraction. She _was_ in danger, and he is always required to save her as long as she lives.

She smiles widely as she thinks all of the possibilities again. She has tried owling to the Auror recruiter and the Department of Mysteries representative, but only the Auror recruiter has owled her back and requested to see her resume and her Ministry employee file.

“Hermione?” says Ron, standing in a plaid bathrobe as he stirs a cup of morning tea and reads a rather surprisingly thick book. “Why are you looking like that? Smiling like that?”

“Good morning. Lovely Wednesday,” she replies, her smile even wider.

He furrows his eyebrow in confusion as she leaves their apartment for work. He shrugs to himself, sipping tea as he readies himself for his shift at the joke shop. After he left the Auror Office and the Ministry itself, he isn’t so privy to the details of whatever Hermione is doing with her squad. He yawns once and glances over at the manual for the newest prank the shop is planning to sell.

Hermione habitually gives him a kiss on the cheek with a black leather briefcase under her arm. She rights her black standard robes, steps out of their apartment, breathes in the brightness of a brand new day, and begins walking towards the local Apparition Point. Her heels make the usual click and clacks, and she could feel eyes turning at her with interest.

She finds the office space reserved for Inverness Squad, and Kath is the first to greet her. She remarks, “You look really happy today. Want to elaborate on that, Hermione?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing. It’s absolutely nothing,” she hums.

“You keep saying that, and I will believe you.” Kath rolls her eyes and peels off her robe. The black robe sails over Petit’s cubicle and into Kath’s chair. She has a neat black skirt and gray blouse underneath. “Is it me or it feels really warm in here?”

“It does feel warmer than usual,” says Hermione. “Probably something wrong with the—”

Then a loud screech reminiscent of a thundering dragon echoes around the office. Kath and Hermione freezes in horror as they stare at each other.

Hermione’s jaw drops. “That can’t be.”

Kath takes out her wand, her eyes on high alert. “But it sounds exactly like a Chinese—”

Before Hermione’s second can finish her words, there is a huge earthquake that shakes the entire office. Trinkets hanging from the ceiling sway dangerously, paintings slip off the wall hooks, and the cubicle walls begins to rock back and forth. Wheeled chairs roll across the floors, and Hermione has to place herself at an angle to counteract the upward tilt the floor is making.

Remaining calm as possible, she pulls out her wand from her holster. She and Kath stand back to back. One part of Hermione is grateful that it is only six in the morning and that most of the Ministry employees don’t bother coming in until eight or nine. Another part wishes that most of her squad is here with her, so they can face whatever threat this may be—together.

The cubicles begin to move off to the sides, and Hermione and Kath glance nervously at the cracking floor. The tiles form cracks and damages in the shape of miniature lightning bolts, stretching from the epicenter and towards the two women.

“What could that be?” breathes Hermione. Her mind is screaming at how impossible this is—especially because there are countless amounts of spells preventing the Ministry Headquarters from collapsing down on itself—but her eyes tell her a far, worse, and different story. The cracks in the floor is real—and it is spreading, growing, reaching for something.

Then suddenly, a scalded snout bursts through and sends pale tile pieces into every direction. Hermione quickly casts a shield, and she and Kath quickly begin running in the opposite direction of the brown snout of an arching dragon moving upwards towards freedom. Its head whirls around and snorts out black smoke from its nostrils.

“It’s a Chinese Fireball,” yells Kath. “How—How in the world—?”

“It doesn’t matter. We have to move.” The two ladies take off towards the nearby stairwell, running for their lives as a fire-breathing, huge dragon climbs out of Basement Level Four.

_II._

Tom casually puts together his briefcase for his second day at work. Spare parchment, yes. Quills, yes. The Ministry of Magic’s employee handbook, yes. The finished reports which needs to be turned in this morning, yes. He checks his wand and his holster and finds them strapped to his arm. Good.

He is already sealing up the wards on his apartment when he first feels the stabbing of a migraine. Holding tightly onto his briefcase, he steps onto the Apparition Point and Apparate to Hermione Granger’s side. She is at the Ministry of Magic, he can tell.

But how is she in danger?

He doesn’t know. All he knows is that she is there, and he has to get to her before something terrible happens to her and Thrasher gets his head on a stick and begins making barbeque. Before he is forced back into hell.

He rushes through the men’s washroom and doesn’t bother closing the door to step into the toilet. After pulling the flush, he finds himself suddenly in the fireplace and throws himself out as Ministry employees run in all directions like headless chickens. The ones who have some sort of order about them are shouting for Fire Wizards, and from the more headless employees are wild rantings about a Chinese Fireball making its way up through the ceiling.

Bewildered by the sight, he continues to let the migraine lead to Hermione. He runs to the northwest stairwell and begins to run down as he feels the pain alleviating—but only slightly. He knows he is going in the right direction. He pulls out his wand, and he sees them running up.

Hermione and her second, Kath.

“Thomas,” shouts Kath. “Get out of here! Run! There is a—”

“Chinese Fireball,” he finishes. “I overheard. How is it here?”

It couldn’t be kept in Basement Level Four. Everyone would had known about the dragon being kept there. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ employees can’t keep their mouths shut—unlike the Department of Mysteries.

“Does it matter?” shrieks Kath. “We have to get out of here. The Fireball is going to be upon us in any second—”

Just as he casts a shield to protect the three of them, a sharp black claw smashes through the brick wall of the stairwell as if it is only putty. The wall is knocked down, and he sees the piercing yellow-green eyes of a Chinese Fireball.

It is an adult one, and it is. . .

Very dangerous.

He turns towards Hermione, who has her eyes narrowed with suspicion at him. “I never thought you would get into this much trouble,” he hisses under his breath. Then the three of them begins running up the stairway as Tom thinks of many ways to stop a dragon without resorting to the Dark Arts.

But. . .

He doesn’t have to be the one to cast them.

Keeping a shield up as they run up the stairs, the wall cracks open as the dragon rises to Basement Level One and moves closer to its freedom. Out of a whim, Tom tries for a Stunning Spell, but it only flies off the hide of the dragon—which is expected. He hears Hermione scream, “We have to stop the dragon somehow!”

“It takes twelve wizards to stun a dragon! And this is a Chinese Fireball!” screams back Kath, casting her own shield. “There is not twelve of us here!”

As if accepting Tom is a temporary ally, Hermione turns her eyes off of him and then interjects, “We slow it down! We can’t let it get to the rest of the Ministry.” She turns around and steps through the broken stairwell wall as she examines the body of the rising dragon thrashing around wildly with its wings and claws flying in every direction.

A little too innocently, Tom suggests, “Or maybe we can let it go free. The sooner it is out of the premise—”

“Let it go into the wild and where it could hurt itself and others? It would take ages to capture it again,” says Hermione sharply, shaking her head. She throws a glare at Tom. “Not an option. We have to stop it here and now.”

Tom grimace. Of course. What else would he expect from one third of the Golden Trio? Someone who wants to save her own hide and let herself live another day? But no. Thrasher and the devil just have to stick him to someone who would find danger and trouble naturally drawn to her. There can’t be any other option, could there be?

Those two have all of their bases covered. Hermione Granger is his enemy, is a Mudblood, is a member of the irritating Dumbledore’s Army, and is far more annoying than anyone he has ever met. With the sole exception of Harry Potter.

Then again, he has never spent more than a minute in Harry Potter’s company without actively trying to kill him—which is the difference with Hermione. He has to _tolerate_ her.

“The only chance we have to stop it is to stun it.” Hermione pointedly looks at Tom. “We can’t harm it. Drastically.”

He sighs and wishes that someone would strike him deaf. He has a feeling that she is going to press a few hundred rules down his neck.

“The eyes are its only weak spot. Do not harm the eyes!”

Staring at the dragon trying to claw its way through the floor of Basement Level One, he grits his teeth. Of course! Of course. Of course, she will begin setting little blocks here and there. As if he doesn’t have some already.

He points at the damaged floor of Basement Level Two and whispers, “ _Reparo_.” The tile pieces begin to form themselves and gluing back into its former perfection, providing a small platform for the three to stand on. He eyes the dragon, its snout pressing into the ceiling and would soon be escaping upwards again. He glances downwards towards the gaping hole the dragon climbed itself out of, and when he narrows his eyes to squint, he could hardly see anything way down there. It is an abyss of pure darkness, and there lays the secrets the Department of Mysteries. Which apparently used to include the secret existence of a Chinese Fireball.

He frowns, as the two ladies step onto the floor he has fixed. Keeping his voice soft, he whispers, “The dragon can’t be hit directly with a spell. We have to use a distraction.”

“Like waving a red flag in front of a bull,” breathes Hermione, her eyes widening with inspiration. Her wand points at the dragon, and she shouts, “ _Lumos solem_!”

The dragon screech and whines as the bright jet of light temporarily blinds it. It staggers around and falls one story below, managing to scratch its claws into the wall as hooks. Still alive, unfortunately.

Tom sarcastically notes, “That was brilliant. Now you’ve done it.”

True to Tom’s prediction, the dragon shrieks out an angry sound—actually a roar. It quickly crawls its way back up, going rather quickly towards Hermione. Tom doesn’t take any moment to second guess himself. He aims his wand at the dragon’s front leg the second it lifts one of its back leg to climb another three feet or so and shouts, “ _Reductor_!”

“Thomas,” shouts Kath. “That is not the way we do—”

The dragon falls down and down and down, slipping into the darkness. Tom furrows his eyebrow, and at Kath’s panicked expression, he points his wand in the general direction of the dragon’s form and casts, “ _Arresto Momentum_!” He isn’t quite sure if the spell has worked properly or not, but he could feel his magic pulling _something_ back. He tightens his grip on his wand and seriously begins to hope on the dead ghost of Merlin that he didn’t just make a huge mistake in casting that spell. The three of them hear a loud dropping sound that echoes for a long moment—over and over and over again.

Hermione peers a little over the edge, and Tom feels the sharpest jab of a migraine—which is still present but not as powerful as it was before. “Did you kill it by accident?”

“It fell approximately a hundred feet. Dragons are known to survive falls from even greater heights,” he tells her, rolling his eyes. “It is going to be—”

Suddenly, he feels the pain increase again.

“That is a stupid dragon,” he hisses, pulling out his wand again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees many wizards and witches in green robes with brooms jumping into empty space and then flying around the newly created empty space. They all have their wands out, and they begin to count it off—five, four, three. . . Hermione and Kath raise their own wands, and peering over the edge, they wait.

Then a telltale flutter of something brown flies up from the darkness.

Two. . .

One. . .

Almost in unison, there is a great cry of “ _Stupefy_.” The dragon is hit by a bright collection of sparkling blue jets of light, and it falls once again towards the Department of Mysteries.

Still holding out his wand, he doesn’t feel relaxed though. He feels anxious, as if waiting for something terrible to happen—waiting for the other shoe to drop on his head. Hermione Granger steps back into the stairwell and begins to climb up towards the undamaged areas. Kath follows her, tugging at his arm.

Then he sighs with relief.

The migraine is finally gone.

_III._

**INCIDENT REPORT: CHINESE FIREBALL (DRAGON)**

**INCIDENT SUMMARY: ON 21 JULY 2004 AT APPROXIMATELY SIX IN THE MORNING, A CHINESE FIREBALL (A TYPE OF DRAGON) CLIMBS OUT OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES AND BEGINS TO TEAR APART THE UPPER BASEMENT LEVELS IN AN ATTEMPT FOR FREEDOM. THOMAS SMITH (INVERNESS SQUAD) AND HERMIONE GRANGER (INVERNESS SQUAD LEADER) MANAGE TO SLOW THE DRAGON DOWN UNTIL PROPER AUTHORITIES FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF REGULATION AND CONTROL OF MAGICAL CREATURES ARRIVED TO STUN IT.**

**WRITTEN TO: JASON EPOCHE, SAMUEL ROSSI, RICK ZEVIN, SONDRA HARRISON, GAWAIN ROBARDS, NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM, DANIEL CHANG, AND THIRTY-SEVEN OTHERS**

**CC: HEAD ARCHIVIST OF DEPARTMENT OF REGULATION AND CONTROL OF MAGICAL CREATURES, HEAD ARCHIVIST OF DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES, HEAD LIBRARIAN OF AUROR OFFICE**

**DATE: 21 JULY 2004**

**TYPE OF REPORT: WITNESS STATEMENT**

**WITNESS: KATHRYN “KATH” JIMENEZ**

**REPORT AUTHOR: KATHRYN “KATH” JIMENEZ**

**STATEMENT:**

**AT SIX A.M., HERMIONE GRANGER WALKED IN TO THE INVERNESS SQUAD’S OFFICE WITH A SMILE ON HER FACE. AFTER CHATTING ABOUT THAT CURIOUS SMILE, WE BOTH NOTICED A LOUD SHRIEK. NEITHER OF US TOOK MUCH NOTE, AT FIRST. THEN THE ENTIRE FLOOR BEGAN TO SHAKE AND THEN CRACKS GREW ACROSS THE TILE FLOORS. THE DRAGON CRAWLED OUT FROM BASEMENT LEVEL FOUR AND ONTO BASEMENT LEVEL THREE BEFORE OUR EYES. WE RAN TO THE STAIRWELL AND PLANNED TO RUN UP TOWARDS SAFETY (OR TO THE FIREPLACES). WE WERE SOMEWHERE BETWEEN BASEMENT LEVEL ONE AND BASEMENT LEVEL TWO WHEN WE RAN INTO THOMAS SMITH (INVERNESS SQUAD).**

**AT THAT MOMENT, THE DRAGON CHOSE TO BREAK THROUGH THE WALLS USING ITS OWN CLAW. IT APPEARS TO ME THAT THE DRAGON HAS INCREASED IN SIZE BUT NOT DRASTIC ENOUGH FOR THOSE WHO WEREN’T RAISED AROUND DRAGONS LIKE I WAS TO NOTICE. (BRIEF NOTE: I WAS RAISED ON A FARM IN CANADA, WHICH WAS SUBJECTED TO THE CANADIAN MINISTRY RAID DUE TO THE ILLEGAL CARE OF SEVERAL DRAGONS INCLUDING A CHINESE FIREBALL.) ASTONISHINGLY, THE CHINESE FIREBALL HAS GROWN FROM AN APPROXIMATE LATE-TEENAGE SIZE TO A FULLY GROWN, ADULT DRAGON. IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE FOR A DRAGON TO GROW THAT FAST WITHIN THOSE MINUTES, WOULDN’T IT BE?**

**UNLESS SOMEONE HAS MANIPULATED THE VERY MAGICAL CORE OF A DRAGON OR PERHAPS HAS CHANGED SOMETHING ABOUT THE DRAGON TO MAKE IT AGE FAR QUICKLY THAN POSSIBLE.**

**WHILE I WAS SECURING THE AREA AROUND US BY APPLYING REPAIRING SPELLS AND SHIELDING THE THREE OF US WITH A HEAVY WARD, HERMIONE GRANGER AND THOMAS SMITH WERE ATTEMPTING TO SLOW DOWN THE DRAGON AFTER A QUICK DISCUSSION. HERMIONE GRANGER, SLIGHTLY MORE IMPULSIVELY THAN USUAL, TEMPORARILY BLINDED THE DRAGON USING LIGHT. THOMAS SMITH THEN BLASTED THE DRAGON’S FOOT AND SENDS IT FALLING DOWN TO APPROXIMATELY BASEMENT LEVEL NINE OR TEN.**

**HE ALSO SLOWED THE DRAGON’S FALL.**

**BY THE TIME THE DRAGON WAS APPEARING TO CLIMB UP THE BASEMENT LEVELS AGAIN, WITCHES AND WIZARDS FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF REGULATION AND CONTROL OF MAGICAL CREATURES HAD ARRIVED TO TAKE DOWN THE DRAGON. TOGETHER, EVERYONE PRESENT IN THAT MOMENT CASTED THE STUNNING SPELL AT THE DRAGON AND TOOK THE DRAGON DOWN AT LAST.**

**KNOWN INJURIES:**

  * **THOMAS SMITH: NONE.**
  * **HERMIONE GRANGER: NONE.**
  * **KATHRYN JIMENEZ: NONE.**



**SPELLS USED:**

  1. **_MODIFIER OF WAND-LIGHTING CHARM (1): GRANGER USED “Lumos Solem.”_**
  2. **_REDUCTOR CURSE (1): SMITH_**
  3. **_ARRESTO MOMENTUM (1): SMITH_**
  4. **_STUNNING SPELL (MULTIPLE): EMPLOYEES OF DEPARTMENT OF REGULATION AND CONTROL OF MAGICAL CREATURES, SMITH, GRANGER, JIMENEZ_**
  5. **_MENDING CHARM (8): SMITH, JIMENEZ_**
  6. **_SHIELD CHARM (2): SMITH, JIMENEZ_**
  7. **_FIANTO DURI (1): JIMENEZ_**
  8. **_CAVE INIMICUM (1): JIMENEZ_**
  9. **_MODIFIER OF SHIELD CHARM (1): JIMENEZ USED “Protego Totalum.”_**
  10. **_REPELLO INIMICUM (1): JIMENEZ_**



**NOTES:**

**I AM REQUESTING THE FILE ABOUT THE CHINESE FIREBALL FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES. FURTHERMORE, I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW THE FINAL FATE OF THE FEMALE DRAGON. THANK YOU. (K.J.)**

_IV._

Hermione Granger is trouble.

First the Dashing Rogues—the gang of thieving wizards who love stealing money from Muggles—find themselves battling Hermione and putting her in danger. Then somehow a dragon—no, specifically a Chinese Fireball, as Kath keeps on insisting it being called as—manages to burst out from beneath their feet and put everyone at the Ministry of Magic Headquarters in terrific danger. Now, if he didn’t have to lift a single finger, he might enjoy the show to watch everyone run around and scream their heads off as they try to subdue one of the most fearsome dragons in the world. But no. He had to save two women from a dragon.

How does a dragon even make it into the Ministry of Magic?

He shakes his head as he pens his own witness testimony. This sort of trouble is reason why he can’t finish De La Cruz’s pile of work until this afternoon. Yesterday, he planned to get everything done by this Wednesday morning, so he could start on his own pile—which is starting to grow larger and larger by the second. He can’t _wait_ to start reading the local laws and trying to see what sort of rules did the Inverness locals break this time. It is boring work. If he has to read one more thing about Apparating under the influence of Firewhiskey or some other story, he is going to get that idiot’s wand and stick it in the place where sun never shines. Then he is going to cast the Torture Curse and watch the idiot’s face peel off. Slowly.

He suddenly breaks his quill.

Scowling, he grits his teeth and mends it. It is not a good day, and—

“Get ready,” says Kath, throwing him a set of black standard armor.

He catches it in his hand, noting how light it is. It is something similar to what his Death Eaters wore when they were out to do raids, but the Ministry material is slightly heavier but more protective with its outstanding protection charms. It is soft and exactly the color of a starless night. Kath stands there by his cubicle, waiting.

Cheerfully, she beckons with her head. “Come on. We got a raid, rookie.”

_V._

She is crouching over a gargoyle as she peers over the edge to see the rundown house down by the tiny river. The church’s bell tower proves to be an excellent vantage point. In there are a few dozen wizards and witches who enjoy selling something called Honey Pop-Pop—which is a hard magical drug that has sent over a dozen victims to the emergency room of St. Mungo’s. The increase in Honey Pop-Pop is especially centered around one area—Inverness.

It has to be Inverness where everything starts. That is why the Honey Pop-Pop case has circled around the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement and ended up on her desk. She gave a copy to all over her squad members—including Tom Riddle.

Lifting the bean-sized Extendable Ears, she whispers, “How are we doing?”

“I brought the rookie,” answers Kath. “I’ll send him to you.”

“Alright. I’m next to the highest bell of the bell tower. At the Muggles’ Church,” she replies back. “Everyone else, stay alert for the next shipment. Keep the rookie out of the way.”

“No problem. Currently en route.”

Hermione lifts up her telescope and examine the shuttered windows. For a house that Muggles avoid and is supposedly abandon, it is so suspicious for the window to suddenly sport brand new curtains. According to the records, the brown, two-story house—more like a yellowing shack—has been without owners for the last thirty years. It is so strange that there aren’t any moths or brown spots in the blue fabric.

She snorts. Drugs. Problem in both the Muggle and Wizarding World. Perhaps they can come together and trade tips on how to solve that sort of problem. Then again, she has read in the newspapers that the Americans aren’t having the greatest amount of luck—in both worlds. She, of course, has her own opinions on how to solve that particular issue, but she has learned very early in her career to not make suggestions when one has a terrible boss who has no head for ideas and is a sticker for rules and traditions. Jason is unfortunately another one in her long list of current and former bosses.

Anything words and suggestions or improvements that comes out of her mouth goes over his head. The only time she draws his attention is through her achievements and the amount of closed cases she has tucked in a small pocket dimension in her cubicle.

She actually missed Annabel—who she worked with back at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She was a decent boss until she was partially squashed underneath a troll and quit after her bones healed. She can’t blame her. She wouldn’t want to work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures after a three-ton troll stepped on her legs in a panic and crushed her underneath.

She hears a telltale pop behind her, and Kath cheerfully says, “Hermione, your package is here. Should I explain the case to him again? In case he is one of the more dull-witted rookies we unfortunately have?”

Before Tom answers, she scolds, “Kath, you’re not supposed to be teasing and you’re not supposed to be here long enough to steal Petit’s Extendable Ears. Get back to the office and finish the serial burglary report, will you? It’s supposed to be due—”

“By tomorrow,” she sings. To Tom, she casually remarks, “You think the squad leader would have a lot of paperwork to fill out and ignore the rest of us, but not Hermione Granger. _Nooo_ , she has to make sure that we finish each and every assignment on time. How many reports is she making you write today?”

“Are you finish, Kath?” She continues to move her telescope around the perimeter of the subject’s home. “Because I would like to chat with the rookie here.”

Kath sniggers. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out how many reports you’re writing, Thomas. She’s probably not giving you that much. She’s nice on the rookies.”

There, Hermione rolls her eyes. However, not every rookie happens to be Tom Marvolo Riddle—Lord Voldemort, You-Know-Who, the Dark Lord, Heir of Slytherin—himself.

“Hey, Kath,” says Robins. “You mind keeping it down? Some of us actually have to work here. Go back to the office and finish the paperwork.”

Into the stolen Extendable Ear, Kath hisses, “Fine. Be that way.” Then she pauses and whispers, “I love you, too.”

“Bugger off.”

“Kath,” warningly says Hermione.

“Fine, fine, fine. I’m off. Minding my own business.” Then she hears a faint pop that is so unlike Kath—but is her.

“Smith, did you take classes about field work?”

Tom Riddle stands close to the end, his head slightly hidden by the gargoyle. His black uniform matches the shadow, and his hair has returned to a normal color. “No. They were teaching me all about how to fill in paperwork.”

“Then this is your first lesson.” After seeing Kath and Tom arrive, she puts her attention back onto the house’s front yard. It makes it far easier to pretend that the Dark Lord isn’t right next to her and pretending to be an innocent Ministry employee. Looking at him again would break the illusion of her teaching a naïve rookie who doesn’t know the ropes and such of being in the field.

Also, it doesn’t help that she has an audience.

Or perhaps, it does help.

She so wishes that she is a little more prepared when it comes to dealing with a hidden Dark Lord. It is unfortunate there aren’t any self-help books that would help her when situations like this pop out. Maybe she can pen something like. . . “ _How to Properly Handle a Murderous Guardian Angel without Getting Accidentally/Purposely Killed All While Trolling Him_.” It might even be a national bestseller.

Ron and Harry would definitely enjoy it. Maybe Ginny, too.

“Hermione, how does fieldwork go?” he asks, shaking her out of her thoughts. “The things in your ears. . . What are those?”

“Extendable Ears,” she croaks out. In a louder voice, she answers, “Those are called Extendable Ears. They are the size of a fingernail on a pinky, and they allow you to listen to the other pair of ear on the other end. But the Ministry had the manufacturing company”—she doesn’t want to mention the part the joke shop plays in this—“make modifications to allow far more ears on the same. . . frequency.”

She is one hundred percent sure that she heard that word after hearing it on a Science Fiction tv show, but there is no other better word she can think of right this moment.

“Fascinating,” he drawls. “Kath has already informed me of everything about this case.”

She arches an eyebrow. “And what is it about?”

As she watches the front of the suspicious home, she listens to Tom ramble on and on about the case. He does provide some excellent advice—and she would actually consider them, despite the fact he is one of the worst persons to have ever walked on this world. He lists the victims, the type of crimes, the suspected crimes, and more.

It is a bit weird. . .

He sounds so much like a male version of. . . Well, her.

Now that is creepy. She resists the urge to shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review. Remember that.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have estimated the word count for this fic, and if I complete it, it would be around 150 to 200k. Now, that's crazy.

_I._

“In positions?” she whispers once Tom has stopped talking about the case. The Extendable Ear in ear begin to relay back replies from her the rest of her squad. She takes a small peek at Tom, who has his own Extendable Ear—but no replying capabilities, just all listening until he learns how to properly handle fieldwork without ruining the case.

“Five seconds away,” says Petit. “Anti-Apparition Ward for the entire block has been set up. I’m in position.”

“In position.”

Casting a bluish spell two houses down where the raid will be happening, Robins mutters, “I got a few Muggles I need to send away. Give me one moment.” The Muggles—a young girl, her mother, and a German Shepard—turn around without any warning and hurry to the other side of the street and away from them. “Got it.”

“In position.”

“In position.”

“Ditto.”

Hermione holds up the telescope again, and then she orders, “Alright. All subunits are a go.” She watches as Parkinson and Robins make their way up to the front door and blast it out of the way. Two subunits of two wizards and witches are going through the backway.

She peers through the lens to see some form of rebellion from the drug makers within. But they surrender easily to the might of her squad, and quickly enough, her squad begins to pull out three suspects from the front door. She recognizes one of them. “Xavier Langton. He has been running from the law for eight years. And two others. Deliver them. I’m going to head back to the office with Smith. Petit, handle this, will you?”

“Not a problem. Crime Scene Inspectors are on their way.”

She nods to herself and sets down the telescope to the little table she has conquered against the solid brick wall of the bell tower. She holds out her hand to Smith after a long moment of hesitation and says, “Come on. Let’s head back to headquarters.”

_II._

He has been around her for a long time now, but he is still waiting for the moment she will talk to him—one on one and alone from prying eyes. For now, she treats him like an equal and as if he is only one of her employees. Nothing unusual. Nothing that will stand out. Nothing that will hint him of being _someone more_.

He almost can’t wait for it to all change.

It won’t be in a good way.

He writes a practice report for this morning’s raid on Langton and his drug crew. When he is done, he is supposed to meet up with Petit—who has temporarily taken over the case now that Hermione is in a meeting with the head of Magical Law Enforcement and several other wizards—and compare notes to determine whether or not he could be “released out into the wild.”

Kath’s words. Not his.

He rubs his eyes, and his gaze wanders over to the clock. Five o’clock in the afternoon. If only, if only he could leave. . .

Ministry hours. It is even worse than the hours he had worked back in retail. Here, everyone—with the exception of Parkinson, who likes to leave really early and probably slack off on his workload—comes to work early and stay really late as if they don’t need an ounce of sleep. He has no idea how they could do this, because he feel as if he is only living on tea, coffee, and any other Anti-Sleeping Charms he has up his sleeve.

It’s even worse that the workload—his workload, actually—is boring.

He swears to himself that if he gets another job, he isn’t going to try that hard.

When eight o’clock rolls around the corner and the sun is long gone in the corner window, he bids goodbye to whoever is still there and begins to head home.

Before the fireplace, he feels a tiny prickle in his forehead. That is when he takes his briefcase under his arm and quickly steps onto the sparks and the fire, running and moving quickly to Hermione Granger’s side. He can’t wait to see what sort of mess she has gotten herself into—this time.

He finds himself on the edge of a bridge. He gasps at the sudden appearance of great heights—and he guesses he must be about four or five stories above blackish grey waters. He cranes his head left and right around the very structure and pillars of the bridge to find that bushy-haired witch who must be in danger again.

Damsel in distress, his mind calls her.

But she is not.

To his right, she stands at the edge, her foot one step over the rippling waters below as she makes an appearance of looking as if she is about to jump off the bridge. But her eyes are narrowed in concentration. Her pointed hat flies off her hair, and the wind carries it away down to the waters below in curvy, spiral patterns. Once she sees him, she smiles a little and takes her foot back. Hermione hops down from the bridge’s metal barrier—dedicated to prevent people from falling into the water and to provide safety, something Hermione has completely disregard. She strolls over to him, her hair blowing back in the powerful winds.

Finally, they can talk without an audience—talk the truth about it all.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” she says.

He bristles at the slight mocking tone she dares to speak with his name. His finger twitches, but he can do nothing a single spell on her that will harm a single hair on her head. He flattens out his face into a smooth smile and asks, “What can I do for you?”

Hermione makes a small chuckle at his expression. “Well, I know who you are. I know what you have to do.”

Gryffindor courage and rashness. Foolish, but it is not his business to tell them that.

“So?” He raises a bored eyebrow.

Hermione raises her chin. “I think this fate is too good for you. A mass-murdering, evil, arrogant, and ugly bastard like you should have never been released from hell in first place.”

There are so many things he could say that will tick her off, but he keeps himself quiet. Just listening and waiting and waiting for the moment she might let something slip. Something that will let himself make the best out of this situation.

If he has it his way, he would lock her away in a castle and then discover a way out of the devil’s trap with the sheer amount of spare time he would have without having to run to defend Granger’s life at the drop of the hat. However, he realizes that is too obvious.

Besides, he doubts Granger will let him lock her away without a fight. A real nasty one, he senses. Granger has that sort of look that makes him wary of her. A bit darkness, he admits. But nothing alarming or impressive.

She stares long and hard at him.

Not letting this opportunity slip by, he enters her mind nonverbally. It is logical, protected, and straight. She could feel his intrusion, and she begins to fight him off and mentally yell obscene words at him. Briefly, he wonders where she has learned those _kinds_ of words.

He can feel flickers of memories, and he views them quickly.

_. . . Friends. . . Friends. . . Words on a chain in Luna’s bedroom. . ._

_. . . She carefully opens the letter. Who would send something like this to her? It is made out of an odd type of paper she doesn’t recognize; and the quality of writing is lazy but elegant. Hogwarts. What is Hogwarts? Her parents stare at the letter with unhidden and apparent curiosity. . ._

_. . . She feels complete when she firsts holds her wand. . ._

_. . . She shouts, and the pile of wood catches on a tall and wild fire. It is of a homely orange color that warms her to the very bones. . ._

_. . . There is a heady amount of smug satisfaction coursing through Hermione’s blood and mind as she nastily grins at a trapped and frightened beetle in a clear jar. . ._

_. . . She holds up two cakes in front of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and explains about the Sleeping Draught in the cakes that will aid them in taking material from Crabbe and Goyle. . ._

_. . . She lies boldly and a little awkwardly to a frog-faced woman in a pink suit. The forest is not a safe place, she knows very well. Triumph bubbles within when a group of centaurs—half men, half horses—snatches her to have their revenge—_

“ _Protego_!” she shouts, her wand flashing.

His spell rebounds, his actions too slow to stop it.

_. . . Green flashes of light spark before his eyelids as distant screaming—shrill and high—vaguely annoy him. He will have to silence them next. . ._

_. . . He flicks his wrist. Then out from his mouth comes his favorite curse. . ._

_. . . “Horcruxes.” He meets Professor Slughorn’s horrified eyes. Behind his back, he twists his rightful possession on his ring finger. The ring circles around and around and around as he patiently waits for Slughorn’s answer. . ._

_. . . In his palm, fire blooms in his teenage hand. A cup of flames bursting towards the sky, and sparks fly on his skin—but they don’t hurt him. Wandless. His lips curl into a smile, as he feels his mastery over wandless magic increasing. But it has always been increasing. He wonders how effortless will this will become in a year’s time. . ._

_. . . A warm light from the tip of his wand is when he first realizes that this is it. This is where he belongs. This is—holding his wand—this is coming home at last. He will never let go of this, if the world would let him. . ._

_. . . A tiny piece of cake—sweet on his tongue—makes him close his eyes. It is his first—and only taste—of something sugary before the rest of the cake is knocked to the ground on purpose by another orphan. The three year old begins to cry as the cupcake is smashed underfoot. . ._

_. . . The snake which has dared to scare all of the other children away does not frighten him. No, he moves closer to the garden snake and reaches towards it with a trembling hand. His chubby fingertips touch its scales, and it hisses in pleasure. Feeling bravery, he allows the foot-long snake curl around his body and all and smiles. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel so—_

He breaks the link between Hermione and him, gasping with shock at the sudden invasion into his defenses. Her chocolate-brown eyes perfectly match his expression, and both of them quickly shake away their true expressions. Baring his teeth at her, he snarls, “Get out of my head.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her nostrils flare. “What a damn hypocrite you are. You get out of _my_ head, and I won’t blast you over the bloody bridge!”

At this rate, he might want her to—but his sense of self-preservation is still too strong.

He finds no words to counter hers. She is right—but he’ll never admit it. He snaps back, “I doubt you want to spend a second more in my presence—”

“You’re right,” she interrupts, a touch sarcastic. “But I’m going to make the best out of this.”

He pauses at her Slytherin-worthy grin. His heart falters and misses a beat—and he has that one feeling that he does not want to miss this. Because he is so doomed. She has a touch of fiery fury, and he knows—he just knows—that if he touches, if he stays too close, he is going to burn.

“You,” she spits, poking at his chest. “You, horrible monster.”

Ah, yes. The slap, slap, slap route. That routine.

He mentally wonders how long she will take, and he also wonders if the devil is going to allow her to slap him, scold him, and do whatever she wants with him—and whether or not cursing her into the deepest pits of hell would count as self-defense. He has an inkling it wouldn’t count. Nope. He is more than sure that if he casts an inching hex at her, he will get some sort of physical change that is far worse than a changed color of hair.

Should he try?

He decides to wait it out.

She leans closer to him, her heels not providing enough lift to match his height. But she is only an inch off. Close enough to meet his eyes without having to lose a lot of her dominant nature. “You ruined my best friend’s life and his sleeping patterns for years. You killed his parents. You ruined Ginny’s first year at Hogwarts, and you tried to use her in a sick, attempted murdering spree. You killed Cedric. You encouraged a cult-like group to murder and torment England and Scotland for years, and you destroyed a whole lot of childhoods. You, a fucking serial killer, who can’t seem to leave everyone alone in your quest for power, glory, and immorality. And what do you have to say for yourself?” With every word, her voice is louder and louder and her hair escapes from her no-nonsense bun by the dozens until they’re. . .

Electrified is one word for them.

He wonders what sort of excuse he should make up now. He decides to do the classic charm. He gives her his best eyes of innocence and answers, “I was absolutely insane and out of my mind. Splitting my soul. . . Well, it didn’t do much good to my intelligence, didn’t it?”

She narrows her eyes, even more angry. “I can’t believe you said that right to my face!” The part about _“Do you think I’m an idiot?”_ remains silent—but he could hear it all the same. Snarling at him, she draws out her wand. “I have half a mind to curse you to the end of this century!”

In a flash, his own wand is out. They point it at each other, and Tom knows that his best bet in a fight against this witch is to hope that she tires out. Because. . . One, he can’t cast the Dark Arts. Two, he can’t harm her. Three, the only spell he can probably cast in this situation is _Orchideous_ and _Protego_ —and he has a strong sense that he won’t win using those spells. And four, he really hopes that she doesn’t try the more permanent curses and get really creative with her spells.

She continues ranting. “That sort of thing might work on Professor Slughorn, but I can smell your bullshit seven miles away. Compulsive liar, huh? I want to tell you something that isn’t a lie. I swear that I’m going to make your life. . . guardian angel life a living hell. Because you are a—”

A flashlight shines at the pair, and Hermione squints at the Muggle policeman strolling towards them with concern. “Are you two alright?”

“Yes,” they answer together, their wands suddenly out of sight.

The balding policeman beckons with two fingers. “Good. But I need you two to step away from the edge of the bridge please. There were some concerned neighbors, who were concerned about how close you two are to the bridge.”

They both step away, and Tom finally notices the last bit of his migraine slipping away. Walking down the bridge and back onto land, he is lost in his own thoughts as he watches Hermione follow him—just a step behind.

_III._

She runs her mind over the little pieces and snippets of memories she has managed to gleam from him using the rebound spell. She flinches away from the memories of his darkest and evilest moments and towards the younger years. The most beautiful and simplest memory he possesses is when he finds a friend in the little garden snake when he was so, so, so young.

Her head somewhat cooled after the appearance of the traffic officer, Hermione turns towards Tom and smugly says, “You should know that you don’t need to finish the rest of De La Cruz’s reports.”

He freezes. “What?”

“Or yours. You don’t need to finish those. I’m transferring to the Auror Office. I’m assuming you will be transferring also, because Thrasher would want you to stick close to me.” A pause as she gleefully examines his face of absolute horror and realization—he is just starting to realize that all the reports he finished today are for naught. “We’ll be part of the Scottish Division.”

She notes his hands twitching. Is he trying or planning to strangle her?

Perhaps beat her over her own head?

She has no idea. His face has morphed into a blank canvas.

“The Auror Office?” He glances at her. “And Potter?”

She bristles at the name on his lips. Glaring angrily at him, she snaps, “Leave Harry out of this. This is between you and me and no one else. You drag Harry into this, and I’ll make you regret it. Leave him alone. Do you understand?” Her wand tip brushes his coat as she snarls at him with the ferocity of a lioness.

He backs away. “Fine.”

She puts her wand back into her holster. She takes in the factor of Harry into consideration when she was transferring to another office within the Ministry. Harry is in the South English Division—which infamously dabbles into international relations even when it is not supposed to. They are in two far different divisions, and chances are slim that he will run into her. The Auror Office has loads of employees and offices around England. Besides, the Scottish Division is hectic and chaotic—and most importantly, snobbish enough to never ask for help from other departments even when they need it. It is what led to the Way-Jarvis Scandal that commandeer the headlines for a month or so before the news died down.

“I’ll owl you the details.”

He gives her a look of pure annoyance and then Apparate away with a muffled crack.

Now that look he gave her is so worth everything she has done and said. It is the same look she would see on a child begging for another candy but realizing he must jump through several hoops in order to earn it. She glances around, her hair blowing up from the cars zooming by her. She tightens her cotton black jacket around her body and then Apparate home.

_IV._

She pushes the door open to find Ron blinking at her in a shaggy bathrobe. His ginger hair sticks out in a similar way to Harry’s, and he yawns. “Hermione, do you know what time it is?”

She shuts the door and glances at her watch. It is two o’clock.

In the morning.

She says, “Sorry, Ron. Ministry business.”

He shakes his head. “How are you still awake at this time? You wake up at five in the morning and come back around one or two. Then you keep on working until three and sleep only for two hours. And I hardly ever see you. I feel like I’m more in a relationship with this apartment than I am with you.”

Her heart stops, and she admits it to herself. She does seem as if she is back in her third year and taking more classes than necessary—just without a Time Turner. Even worse, she has been doing this for two years now. But she knows that she has to work unless she wants to be trapped into a dead end job with mountains of paperwork and no end until death. What Ron says is true, too. He hardly ever sees her, and it is always in the middle of the night when they finally get to say hi/bye for the day. Even weekends aren’t that good.

“Ron. . .”

He raises his finger. “Look. I get what you’re doing. I get the work that you’re doing. I was an Auror, too, and I was trapped under paperwork until I decided to resign. I know your ambitions, Hermione, but. . . I don’t know if this is working out.”

She blinks at him. “Ron. Did you somehow mature while I was at work?”

Ron chuckles. “Duh. What else could I do around here?” He raises his arm, gesturing wildly to their little home together. “But no. I actually practiced that speech for two hours, so I can be logical and not emotional.”

She smiles at him.

“That was the advice from Harry. He thinks I should let my head cool down.”

“You told Harry?”

He nods. “And Ginny.” He adds, “She said that. . . people grow apart. I think we’ve grown too far apart to be fixed back together again.”

Where silence used to be comfortable between the two of them, it is now. . . an awkward pause between two people who have drifted apart.

“Are we still friends?” she asks.

“Of course.” Staring right at her with nothing but fondness, he adds, “Please don’t go home at two in the morning. You always wake me up, because I always have to check to see who is there”—she clearly remembers how war has affected Ron to the point that he always, always checks safety measures around the apartment without fail even though his wards are sometimes rubbish—“and I never get an ounce of sleep once you come in. I swear that I’m living a Ministry employee’s hours without being employed at the Ministry of Magic.”

“So do you want me to move out or—?”

He shakes his head. “It’s too late for that. We’ll talk in the morning.” Then he walks off to bed, his footsteps somehow sounding far lighter than it has been in the last two years. “But seriously, Hermione. You need to work on your hours. Two or three hours of sleep per night is going to backfire on you. Badly. I’m tempted to feed your Sleeping Draughts to help you reach that six hour mark.”

She nods and then raises a finger.

Ron groans. “No, no, no. You can’t be seriously. . .”

“One hour,” she begs. “I need to send my squad member—”

Ron rolls his eyes. “But I’m going to bed, and I’m going to shut off all lights when it is three o’clock, Hermione. Send it fast.”

She gives him a long hug and then scampers off to her work desk to send that letter to Tom. Ron slips away to bed, and at exactly three, he turns off all the lights and finally goes to a refreshing sleep with no dreams and no nightmares.

_V._

She can’t be serious.

Moving now. . .?

He toss himself onto his bed without shrugging off his coat. He can’t believe this. Of course, she would shake up everything he has planned and everything he has built so far just by moving to a whole different office he is unfamiliar with. He has spent an entire month gathering information through his classes and instructors only to thrown into a far different battlefield. All the information about the Inverness Squad is completely useless in almost every way. The legendary stories about Kath. . . Pointless.

At least the stories about Hermione will be relevant.

A silvery-gray owl flies in and proceeds to cry at him with a sort of righteous anger—although he isn’t sure what it is so angry about. He can see the owner’s features and attitude in it, though. It’s definitely Hermione’s owl. Without a single doubt. He takes the letter from the owl, and he glares at the angrily hooting owl.

Then he suddenly remembers the wards he put up. They mercilessly search for traces of malicious magic in letters, and it’s clear that his wards didn’t spare this owl. He gives the owl a long look and then sighs. “Look, I don’t have any owl treats with me.”

It hoots even louder. Then it scrunches up its face as it takes a very, very long. . .

He groans, cursing Hermione Granger to the depths of hell. “Stop doing that before I curse you.” He glances away as Hermione’s owl empties out its bowels on his brand new desk, face twisting with disgust. His wandhand twitches, and he shouts, “ _Crucio_!” His wand doesn’t do a single thing, but the owl glares at him—completely fine and not a single feather out of place.

Then he remembers. Thrasher.

As if on cue, his armpit feels a horrible itch. He jumps a little, and he attempts all countercurses in an attempt to find something that will stop the itching. All his efforts are futile.

The owl’s eyes seem to brighten, as if knowing what’s going on.

Satisfied with the justice served, the owl then flies off.

From the corner of his mouth, he whispers, “Bloody, stupid owl.” He cleans up the lovely present the owl leaves behind and works the spell—not only once—but twice and then a third time. He opens the letter, his stomach dropping even more.

The transfer. He is really moving to the Auror Office and leaving behind the Inverness Squad. Even though he has finished all the paperwork and reports De La Cruz was supposed to finish. Granger, he hisses in his head. She is. . .

_VI._

**EMPLOYEE: THOMAS SMITH**

**MINISTRY ID NUMBER: X98-234WE-0932B-09382**

**ID NUMBER: 093382-TS**

**FORMER DEPARTMENT: MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT PATROLS (INVERNESS SQUAD), MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT**

**TIME IN FORMER DEPARTMENT: ~1 MONTH**

**CURRENT DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE, MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT**

**TRANSFER REQUEST: GRANTED**

**AUROR OFFICE DIVISION: SCOTLAND**

**TRANSFER DATE: 20 JULY 2004**

**REASON FOR TRANSFER: PARTIAL TRANSFER OF INVERNESS SQUAD. TRANFERRING ALONG WITH HERMIONE GRANGER (ID: 009753-HG), DAVID RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR), AND HEATHER CHASE (ID: 083433-HC). SCOTTISH DIVISION SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED FOR HERMIONE GRANGER, WHO THEN REQUESTED THREE CONSTABLES TO BE TRANSFERRED ALONG WITH HER. SCOTTISH DIVISION CONFIRMS ALL CONSTABLES.**

**REQUIREMENTS FOR EMPLOYEES: SIX MONTHS OF TRAINING IN AUROR ACADEMY REGARDLESS OF SKILL LEVEL (WITH EXCEPTION OF HERMIONE GRANGER, WHO HAS SUFFICIENTLY PASSED AUROR ACADEMY FOUR YEARS AGO). TWO MONTHS OF TRAINING IN AUROR ACADEMY FOR HEATHER CHASE (WHO HAS ALMOST COMPLETED ALL UNITS REQUIRED). EMPLOYEES MUST ALSO HAVE A PHYSICAL UNLESS THEY HAD ONE WITHIN THE LAST YEAR.**

**REPORT TO: AUROR OFFICE, 425 EMBASSY AVE., EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, UNITED KINGDOM**

**AUROR ACADEMY: LOCATED ON BASEMENT LEVEL FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, NINE OF EDINBURGH AUROR OFFICE HEADQUARTERS**

**COORDINATES: 55° 57′ 11″ N, 3° 11′ 20″ W**

**NOTE: WELCOME TO SCOTTISH DIVISION, AUROR OFFICE. WE’RE PLEASED TO HAVE YOU. ALSO, THERE IS NO NEED TO GO THROUGH THE PUBLIC LOOS AND STEP INTO THE TOILETS. SIMPLY WALK INTO THE “SCOTTISH-BRITISH BANK” AND ASK FOR ALBERTA OSBURN. WE WILL HELP YOU FIND YOUR WAY.**

_VII._

A year’s worth of training crammed into half at the Auror Academy. He is already in his sixth and final month, and the Auror Academy possesses some of the most boring classes he has ever had the fortune to take. Defense Against the Dark Arts are worth a good laugh, but when he has to go up and duel, that is when he has to resort to Stunning Spells and the simpler works. All of the best spells are deemed as “Dark Arts,” and he can’t cast them without them backfiring on him in some terrible and awkward way. The first time he tried it—and he was only using a somewhat dark curse—he sported blond, very blond eyebrows for the rest of the week.

It does not go well with his black raven hair. When he tries to change the rest of his hair, his hair refuses to change its color. When he tries shaving it, it works but then the hair grows back at an exponential speed. He even tries using an illusion. It works—for a second before getting ripped into shreds by some sort of curse Thrasher is using on him.

When he gets his freedom back, he knows who he is going to kill first. Of course, he has to torture him a little. He already has a three-feet-long list of spells he wants to use.

Potions provides nothing challenging for him, and Charms is downright dull. He wants to snort at all of these supposedly post-N.E.W.T.-level spells the trainees are learning, because he has learned them all and more by the time he graduated from Hogwarts. Arithmancy is one exception, though. Two years ago, some clever witch in Beijing has managed to revolutionize it by inventing a new method that will quickly calculate certain equations. The numbers turn out to be very compelling, and if he actually uses her methods, then the amount of magic and effort he must puts in. . .

Well, it means that his efficiency rate is far better than before. Unfortunately, he can’t use Dark Arts and try them out in some way or another.

Then there are the procedure classes.

How to approach a suspicious object. . .

How to take down a suspect. . .

How to determine if someone is lying. . .

Honestly, all of these classes should be labeled as “common sense” classes. He is not surprised by the utter idiocy in the trainees and how the Auror Academy must spell everything out with little rules and warnings against impulsive actions. At this rate, they might as well begin to teach English classes along with everything else. The _abc_ s are the first and foremost place to start.

He sniggers as he thinks of everyone taking basic English classes. He bets that everyone will start dropping dead like flies when they have to be questioned on their rhetoric and poetry skills.

He opens the door to his new studio flat in Edinburgh. Originally, it used to be an ugly, moldy space with rats covering the walls. Fortunately, the rent is cheap, but unfortunately, all of his neighbors are Muggles. He closes the door and prevents the nosy little girl from peeking in. The wards quickly form together, and he shrugs off his trainee jacket slowly. A flick of his wand sends the bathtub filling up with steamy water.

When he removes his shoes and socks, soft white carpets greet his feet. He sighs at the thought of being home at last. Well, a temporary home. But a place he could call his own.

When his head falls onto his pillow and he rolls around on his king-sized bed, he sighs once again with relief that there has been not a single headache annoying him—for the fourth day in the row. Hermione Granger does get into too much trouble. Nearly a week ago, she has somehow managed to get caught in a three-way robbery between her, the robber, a second robber, and a third robber. And three days before that, she finds herself in trouble under some old Ministry wards—which just has be collapsing on her at the wrong moment. It’s only for his Apparition skills gifted from hell—which completely ignores and defies the Anti-Apparition Wards—that they both survive.

He already has a list of all the things he gets a headache for. A list of fifty-six itemized troubles with his personal opinion and complaints. He has figured that some sort of trouble or phantom or former enemy or accident will find itself on Hermione’s path every three days. He has a feeling that Thrasher might have a hand in most of the “accidents” happening.

Even though he is doing great academically at the Auror Academy, his attendance is a mess. His frequent loo excuses doesn’t impress his instructors, and he knows that if he gets one more missed class in DADA, he is going to fail that class—regardless of how good he is.

He also has a feeling that this is the sort of pressure Thrasher loves to give to hell’s prisoners. A realization—a brief touch at death—to strike horror into the very hearts of his prisoners. Unfortunately, it is working.

He does not—not—want to go back to Limbo.

Or worse.

To suffer is to live, and that is better than the end.

_VIII._

The graduation ceremony is set in a lovely garden in the park swollen with Anti-Muggle Wards and Anti-Apparition Wards. In the chaos between the parents of the graduating Aurors, she finds herself sitting down and reading the reports the Auror Office has been sending her. She has started on a team, but after proving herself to be adept at paperwork and leadership, her boss promoted her two months ago to a team of her own—along with a coleader, who will show her the ropes until she can handle it completely without failure. Her history as a squad leader most definitely helped her gain that promotion.

Gawain Robards stands at the podium and reads the list of graduating trainees. There is a line of trainees dressed in silver-blue robes who climb up the stairs and shake hands with Robards with a diploma clutched in their hands. Hermione listens as the announcers call the names out in alphabetical order.

“Mark, Lucy!”

A blonde girl with wavy locks falling behind her back rises from the receding row of seats. Less and less trainees are at the front eight rows, and if she squints, Hermione is sure that she will be able to see Tom there. A black trainee smiles and makes a quick chat with Robards and then walks towards the back of the rows of chairs to give his parents for a hug. Some trainees have already left, because they have received their missions and assignments. Others simply wish to go home.

But there are a few or more who want to stay behind, listen to the one hundred plus names left, and throw their wands up to shoot sparks in the sky. She can remember graduating Auror Academy many years ago, sitting down in a chair seven rows in front of her and nervously squishing the grass under her foot as she carefully waited for her name to be called with chewed fingernails. Robards’ hand was dry compared to her sweaty palm, and he looked not an inch different. Same gray eyes, same salt and pepper hair. She waited all the way to the end with the Weasleys so she could join Harry and Ron in their celebrations. One year at the Auror Academy.

It is a much more comprehensive education plan compared to the quicker and far more selective training for current Ministry employees.

“Smith, Thomas!”

Hermione’s attention snaps back towards the stage as a black-haired wizard wearing pristine black robes stroll—no, not stroll but _glide_ —gracefully towards the Head of the Auror Office and Hermione has a sudden impulse to protect—to shield—Robards. It is ridiculous—after all, he can’t hurt anyone under the devil’s word. But it is still creepy how the attractive, slightly smiling mask can hide one of the wicked Dark wizards of all time.

She shivers. But nevertheless, she applauds when he accepts his diploma, shakes hands with Robards without making any outward show of the person he truly is underneath, and smiles charmingly at the photographer. A flash momentarily brightens them both up, and Hermione immediately pities Robards who has to go through over two hundred flashes.

Not a second after he steps off the stage, a tawny brown owl comes and lands on his shoulder. He accepts the letter, and Hermione looks up at the sky—completely unsurprised to find a midnight-black owl coming right at her. She has specifically requested to be in the same team as her squad members, and Eliot Quinn—the subsection leader and her boss, who directly reports to Gawain Robards—has granted that request.

She is surprised by how fast Quinn is. He didn’t even wait until the end of the graduation ceremony to hand them a new assignment.

The owl drops a letter on her lap and flies off without a pause. She slips out of her kidskin leather gloves and begin to read what sort of mission Quinn has cooked up this time. He loves to push her and the team out of boundaries with unusual assignments to see their reaction and their level of creativity. She only hopes that there is another team of Aurors forming, so she doesn’t have to deal with a coleader, who watches everything over her shoulder, and an overbearing boss, who simply likes to swing variables one way or another to see how people would react.

_IX._

**INVESTIGATION: GLASGOW GAMBLING (QUIDDITCH)**

**LOCATION: GLASGOW, SCOTLAND, UNITED KINGDOM**

**TYPE OF CRIME: POTENTIAL GAMBLING RING**

**SUSPECTS: N/A**

**REPORT FILED BY: ELIOT QUINN (039283-EQ)**

**REPORT CREATED ON: 27 JANUARY 2005**

**INVOLVEMENT: UNKNOWN**

**SUMMARY: AN UNKNOWN GAMBLING CENTER APPEARS ON 25 JANUARY 2005 IN GLASGOW ACCORDING TO AN ANONYMOUS TIP. SPECIFIC LOCATION IS UNKNOWN. UNDERAGED MINORS WERE INVOLVED ALONG WITH SEVERAL MUGGLES. THERE WERE SEVERAL UNAUTHORIZED USE OF MEMORY CHARMS ON AT LEAST TWELVE MUGGLES. THE GAMBLING CENTER LATER DISAPPEARED ON 27 JANUARY 2005, AND THE ANONYMOUS TIP COMPLAINED EXCESSIVELY ABOUT A GREAT MONETARY LOSS TO THE LOCAL MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT PATROL (NORTH GLASGOW SQUAD), WHO THEN PASSED IT ONTO THE AUROR OFFICE.**

**NOTE: GRANGER, THIS IS YOUR CASE. THIS IS ALL THE INFORMATION (ALONG WITH A SMALL BROWN PACKAGE ON YOUR DESK) YOU ARE GOING TO GET, SO DON’T BOTHER OWLING ME AT THREE IN THE MORNING. IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM, FEEL FREE TO SCREAM AT YOUR COLEADER. YOU ARE A CLEVER INVESTIGATOR. GO INVESTIGATE.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being really slow on the Tomione front, but I'm trying to drag those two together. Damn plot holes I have to write myself out of.

_I._

“No information, no suspects, no specific clues. . .” In her office, Hermione stares at the new assignment Quinn has assigned to her for the seventh time in the row. The coleader, Sondra d’Arcy, squints shrewdly and calculatingly at the new team leader after reading the assignment over Hermione’s shoulder. 

d’Arcy, a French woman with chestnut-brown hair, has worked for the French Auror Office before being transferred to the British Auror Office due to a sudden need for Aurors during Voldemort’s reign of terror. She never bothered moving back, and therefore, her sense—or rather, a powerful _lack_ of it—of humor makes Hermione want to be sarcastic twenty-four seven and react the exact way Ron would react to her. Still, she is a capable Auror—thirty-five years old, single, never married, and powerful with her shields. She actually has a team of her own—all of the members are either on vacation or working in Auror Offices around the globe.

“Do you have a problem, Miss Granger?” asks d’Arcy.

Hermione stops herself from shivering at her icy tone. It is never a good thing when d’Arcy begins to brainstorm ways to solve a case. It isn’t because she sounds so judgmental—but because Hermione knows she has to figure this out herself. If she can’t. . .

Well, she doesn’t belong to the Auror Office—especially at the position of team leader. She knows that even though Harry is already a subsection leader after working four years at the Auror Office, he has proven himself to be worthy over and over and over again. She. . . has a strong record from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrols, but she hasn’t been tested here. She is still in the middle of her trials, and this case without a strong sense of direction is most definitely the test. The test.

It will either make or break her.

She taps her finger on the assignment and begins to think. Then she pulls up a list of all of her six current subordinates. She might have a vague sense of direction, but it is up to her and her team to put a game plan together to figure out this gambling issue—if it is an issue in the first place.

It is time to call up a meeting.

_II._

Three members of her team are completely new, and they are completely familiar to her eyes and memories. Smith, Thomas. Chase, Heather. Richmond, David. The other members—Joshua Park, Gina Dallas, and Monica Clarkton—are more senior members of the team. The typical team of Aurors range from three to six members—not including the team leader. It is more than obvious that Quinn is making sure she has a net to fall on.

She does not fail to note that Sondra d’Arcy used to command Clarkton and Dallas before they were moved to Hermione’s team. Park, on the other hand, used to part of a team made of up Aurors who suddenly decided to retire and live in the Americas after a horrible run-in with a dragon-troll hybrid. She does not fail to note how d’Arcy, Clarkton, Dallas, and Park all have their lunches together while she awkwardly tries to fit in somewhere in their schedule.

They crowd around in the conference room as a bulletin board shows what little information they have on this case. Hermione’s stomach flips and turns, as if she has dressed naked for work and knowingly has done that while hoping to wing it the entire day without having any amount of preparation. A small pile of letters and a small, mostly empty box is all she has to show for. Typically, when she runs squad meetings, she always has at least four boxes and loads of paperwork. Not like this. This. . . is what Ron might bring to a conference.

Harry is probably more considerate. He might bring _two_ boxes with a messy mountain of evidence his team needs to sort through.

“So we don’t even know the exact details of this?” says Clarkton, his hand running through his greasy brown hair. “Not a single thing?”

“I’m sorry for my forwardness, but Hermione, why are we even on this case? It seems more like a local problem than something for the Auror Office to deal with.” Park raises a dusty eyebrow with a great deal of impatience—acting as if he could have retired instead of working another day at the Auror Office, which he actually could have done.

There. Now, Hermione has an opening.

She answers smoothly, “Because this isn’t just in Glasgow.” Now Park pays attention to her with something akin to polite interest. His finger taps his lips as he motions towards her to continue. “The reason this has been brought to our attention and not to the local authorities is because within the last two years, there has been three similar cases to this. All of them have little information, but what is clear is that around ten Muggles had their memories erased, a large amount of galleons was transferred and exchanged, and these people—the house, you could say—are very careful. Typically, these types of cases would be stored in the area of discarded cases. But Quinn was able to see something suspicious in these patterns.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees d’Arcy nod with something that looks like what a teacher or a professor might give to one of her students when they answer a question correctly.

She relaxes a little.

I can do this, she thinks.

“We have a few clear objectives. We need to identify the people running these unauthorized gambling rings. We need to stop them from erasing the minds of Muggles”—and she has a feeling one person in this room won’t care for them—“and we have to find their next location. We need to figure out where they will set up the next ring and find them before they disappear again. Any questions?”

“How can we do any of this?” David asks.

All eyes turn to him.

He raises an eyebrow. “No suspects. No victims. Just only a vague sense of a crime and a sudden need to find these people. This is an impossible case.”

She looks around to find heads nodding in agreement.

Heck, even Dallas and Clarkton think it is an impossible case. And these are the two most experience Aurors on her team. Between the two of them, they have thirty-six years of experience.

Her mouth dries, and after an inaudible gulp, she answers, “Recon. We gather more information, and we track to see who sent the anonymous tip in the first place. We track to find the previous victims, and from there, we can discover a direction that will point to our suspects.”

She pairs the older Aurors with the younger ones. Richmond with Dallas. Clarkton with Chase. Park with Smith. d’Arcy with herself. Each of them have their own individual assignments, and Hermione knows hers.

Because of her Muggle-born background, she has allowed herself to find the Muggle victims. Approximately thirty of them are out there. She simply has to find one.

_III._

Joshua Park is a greying Auror with a lazy quality about him. He reminds Tom of the fattest cat he has ever seen before, though Park isn’t actually that fat. He simply does nothing while the world spins and spins and spins around him. He won’t be surprised if some wizard sends a spell at Park, Park will just simply send it straight back with the laziest flick of his wand.

That level of lazy.

He is also—without a doubt—a Slytherin. He willingly allows Tom to lead the assignment Hermione has handed to them, and when things look like they are moving out of their lane, he suddenly grabs the controls to take over. He seems the type to take all the good credit and lay all the blame at Tom’s feet.

It infuriates Tom. _None_ of those times when Park suddenly took over were out of his control. Finding the witch or wizard who wrote the anonymous tip is an important assignment, and Park agrees with him. But going to the tax files in the Ministry? Getting a warrant to look through this year’s tax forms for citizens living within fifty miles of Glasgow? Getting a peek at a specific form of the tax forms? Noooo. . . He can’t get it at a snap of his finger. Apparently, he must go through at least five people to finally get to the tax agent, so he could have a list of Scottish citizens who have lost a huge amount of money in gambling. At his own desk across from him, Park smiles serenely as Tom furiously sends owl after owl to get exactly what he needs. He really hates bureaucracy now.

It is not the only way he’s using to find anonymous.

He has also done a faster way. A little spell he has used to find Death Eaters and his enemies is also helpful in finding the anonymous. Just a bit modified. Instead of placing a taboo on his old name, he places a taboo on anyone who uses a similar language style to what the anonymous source used in his or her letter. It’s probably a him, however. The writing is slanted heavily, and the words are messy.

He is so glad he doesn’t have to compare writing samples to nearly everyone in Glasgow. That would be Richmond’s job.

He stands up when the clock reads nine at night and waves a forced goodbye to Park. “I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow at six.”

Park whips his head up from whatever he’s working on, and with surprised eyebrows, he comments, “You should know that Aurors work late and wake up very early. A typical Auror doesn’t leave the office until eleven.”

“And come back at five,” he finishes. Tom flashes him a smile. “Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t work unless I have slept on my own bed. Good night.”

Leaving Park in surprise, he turns away and heads to his loft.

The moment he appears in front of his loft is the moment when he hears a crack in the distance. It is not the crack from someone sneaking up on him. It is not from the migraine. No, it is a far away crack that sings from the direction of Glasgow.

The taboo, he breathes. The spell has been broken. Only after two hours he has originally cast it.

He smirks with excitement and Apparate to the wizard who has broken it. The world shifts into a whirl of color and blackness until he arrives at a magical café. Teacups fly around, and he dodges a napkin zooming at his face. With narrowed eyes, he spins around until he finds the source. The anonymous tip.

Tom can tell it is him. He carries a gloomy aura around him, and a white mark around his wrist means that this man used to carry a watch on his right. He stares blankly at his cup of oolong tea, and his face is long.

He slides into the seat across from him. With a smile, he asks, “Mind if I sit here? I don’t want to bother you, and I promise that I will only be reading and drinking.” With that, he silently summons a book from the corner shelf. It’s a Muggle play— _MacBeth_ by William Shakespeare.

“Sure.” The man nods reluctantly.

Tom raises his hand at a waitress with a black apron wrapped around her waist. “Hello? Yes, I would like whatever”—he pauses and tilts his head—“I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”

“Samuel Vex,” says the interrupting waitress. She smiles shyly at Samuel’s annoyed glance. “I’m sorry, Samuel. But. . .” She gives Tom a salacious look.

He flashes a smile at the drooling waitress. “I’ll have whatever Samuel is having.”

“Yes. Of course. Right away,” babbles the waitress. Almost self-consciously, she touches her hair and pats it down. She even fixes her shirt two paces away.

“Liliana is smitten with you.”

“Is she?” He glances at her black hair once more and raises an eyebrow. He turns a page into Act II of the play. “I didn’t notice.”

A cup full of tea floats and lands in front of Tom. A saucer suddenly appears under it—almost as if its appearance is an afterthought.

Out of nowhere, the man suddenly quotes, “’ _If we should fail?_ ’” He gives a pause, and his voice changes subtly. “’ _We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place. And we’ll not fail._ ’”

“MacBeth and Lady MacBeth. Act I. Scene 7,” Tom says. “I’m surprised you read Muggle literature.”

Vex blinks, completely startled.

“Vex is one of the Pureblood names,” Tom reminds him. He remembers the Vex family. They are not a prominent Pureblood family, but they are on the list. If he had ever gained complete control of the Wizarding World, he would have brought them under his reign among several other families.

“Yes,” he says, running his hands over the table. He looks as if he wants to leave all of the sudden—and Tom knows he can’t have that. He must stay. Or at least, stay enough for Tom to read enough of his mind.

From briefly touching, Tom has already read the basic emotions—sadness, anxiety, and grief. Some thoughts—such as the constant thoughts about his debt—is loud enough for him to hear, and he knows that it is only a matter of time he picks up something interesting.

It’s a perk of being a master of Legilimency. He becomes so well-versed with his craft to the point he hardly realizes he’s using it anymore.

The moment he hits on a memory of playing cards—and the briefest moment of delight—he smiles a little. He even picks up a memory of anger—yelling, screaming. They are all futile, because he is never going to get his galleons back.

“My family does not discriminate in blood status,” he spits out. “It has not discriminated since the fifth century and nor will ever do so again.”

“But Muggles?”

“Muggles? They are innovated, and they are not as ignorant as you Purebloods think,” he replies back, red in the face. He picks up his coat and gives him a dark look. “Now, excuse me. I have better things to do than arguing about the so-called virtues of magical blood. I hope you have a good night with—”

“I’m a half-blood,” he interrupts.

“Doesn’t matter. Half-blood, Muggle-borns, Purebloods. They can all discriminate each other, and what will that lead to? Look at Lord Voldemort. His father is a Muggle, his mother a Pureblood witch. Half-blood. Discriminated against others like him and Muggle-borns and Muggles as well. Pushed away his heritage and turned his back on it. Murdering everyone left, right, and center.”

“What of your heritage?” Underneath the table, Tom’s hand clenches even tighter on his wand as Vex rants on and on. He is surprised he has managed to keep a straight face without cursing him once or twice.

Vex sits back down, a small smile on his lips. “Half-blood. My father is of the Vex family. My mother is Muggle. What makes you think I’m turning my own back on my heritage? Now, if you are done arguing with me, I would like to leave, Mr. . .?”

Placing his book down and raising his hands in mock surrender, Tom gives him a look. “I’m done arguing with you.”

“Good.” He stands back up and pulls out a black, rectangular object. He presses it a few times and casually laughs at something amusing he sees.

Tom furrows his eyebrow. “What is that?”

“This?” Samuel turns the device around to show a bright screen emitting its own light. “This is a phone. I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

His jaw drops. “That is a phone?”

There are no lines connecting it to. . .

“Yes,” Samuel confirms. “It is a phone. You would have known if you have ventured out to the Muggle world once in a while.

Tom flattens out his expressions and smooths it into something presentable and charming. “I’m sorry for starting on a wrong foot, Mr. Vex. I let myself get carried away by something insignificant like blood status. Ever since the war. . . We all have been sensitive.”

He only raises an eyebrow. “Yes? So what?”

“I’m actually approached you for a different reason,” Tom says. His eyes carefully analyze Vex’s green ones with caution and a sharp mind. “I’m here about a letter you have written to the local authorities within the last six months.”

“I’m sure I didn’t write a letter.”

“Are you?” He watches as Vex slips back into his seat. “Because I managed to track it down to you. Would you like to tell me what happened in Glasgow and how you lost a majority of your galleons, Mr. Vex? I promise to be professional.”

“I didn’t realize you were being professional,” Vex sarcastically says. “But I didn’t write that letter.”

“Are you sure?” he asks again. “Because it would be a shame to lose all of that money without even trying to get it back.”

Then Vex narrows his eyes. “Who are you working for?”

“Who else?”

“I doubt the local Magical Law Enforcement Patrol office would actually send someone like you to come and deal with me.”

“You’re right. I don’t work in that department. Anymore,” he replies. “But I want you to tell me everything. How did you get hooked? How did they manage to get your galleons? And what did they do in the aftermath? Tell me your story, Mr. Vex. I’m listening.”

“I’ve written this—”

“I’ve read your letter. I thought you were missing some details. Could you please tell me this? It would help me track down these perps faster. Then they would stop going after other people—who are just like you. Right this minute, there could be someone who is also in the similar situation you were in, Mr. Vex.” Tom takes a sip from his lukewarm tea. “Think about it, Mr. Vex.”

_IV._

The Muggles are far harder to find. But Muggle hospitals are adept at keeping track of records. Victims in the double digits. There has to be one or two who shows up with strange symptoms. They would turn out to be alright eventually, but Memory Charms always have their trace and they are easy to botch up. Motor functions disappear for a few hours and then come back. Strange occurrences. Something that Muggle doctors will be baffled by but something a Healer won’t be.

It takes only three hours to find something strange about a young Muggle teenager who has complained of headaches, has forgotten her name, has remembered her name, and then forgotten it all over again. She has slipped into a coma last month while she was on winter break, and she hasn’t been awake ever since. The doctors are surprised that her brain still has waves, but she isn’t waking up.

Lydia Samson, seventeen years old. Glasgow resident.

Probably in the wrong place, wrong time. Then finds herself at the point of the wand and ends up with her memories all distorted.

A healer from St. Mungo’s examines the brunette, and he nods. “This has all the signs of a botched Memory Charm, Auror Granger, Auror d’Arcy. There is a heavy magical residue around her mind. No sign of torture. Simply a Memory Charm.”

Hermione shivers. She remembers how Lockhart managed to become so. . . peculiar after he screwed up his Memory Charm. He is—however—no less vain to Ron’s endless disappointment.

d’Arcy inquires, “But can you restore her memories?”

The Healer fixes the Muggle clothes which are a size too big for him. He slips the sleeve up and points his wand at her. “I can try. But I may end up scrambling her instead. I would prefer for her to be moved to St. Mungo’s, because the hospital has far better—”

“She could be moved there.”

The Healer blinks in surprise at d’Arcy. “So may I have a closer examination—?”

“Once we figure out a way for her Muggle parents to grant consent to move her to St. Mungo’s. If they don’t grant consent, then you must do it here,” Hermione interrupts sharply.

“Yes.” The Healer briefly touches Lydia’s forehead, and he runs his hand through his blond hair. “From what I can tell, the Memory Charm has been used too much. It is almost as if someone has tried to stop it mid-spell and the caster grabbed and erased the wrong memories. Or at least, the memories that allows Miss Samson to live her day to day life. It is lucky she managed to catch your attention, Auror Granger. That spell, if left unattended in her mind long enough, would have deteriorated itself and her mind. I have halted the decline of the Memory Charm, but it is up to Healers who specialize in the art of Legilimency who have a far better luck with restoring her memories.”

“Thank you, Healer Anderson,” says Hermione.

Questioning Samson’s parents is slightly harder, because they are confused by the sudden interest in their daughter’s medical case.

Outside of the medical room their daughter resides in and completely without the watchful eye of one Auror d’Arcy, Hermione inquires the couple. “Could you please tell me what happened on the night your daughter. . .?” Her voice carefully fades away.

“She came home. Confused. Lost. Said her head was hurting,” says Mrs. Samson. Her fingers nervously circle around each other, over and over again. “My father had a brain tumor, so I took Lydia here immediately. All of the sudden, she forgot who she was. She forgot who we were. She forgot everything about herself, and she panicked when she saw the doctor. She didn’t understand why she was in the hospital.”

Mr. Samson gives her a long, careful look. “Why are you asking these questions?”

Hermione simply answers, “I’m trying to see if Lydia was affected by her environment, Mr. Samson. I’m trying to see if I can do anything more. Something else so I can help your daughter. Was there any particular area she liked to spend time at? Or a certain group of people?”

“She loves shopping and spending money on rubbish.” Mrs. Samson blinks away. “We. . . complained and argued so much about that. Even argued on that morning.”

“Her friends?” prompts Hermione.

“A boyfriend. He has been with her every summer since they were fourteen. But he always leaves her in the fall and comes back at the end of spring. Sometimes, he might come back to Glasgow during winter break and Easter from his boarding school. I don’t understand why she always waits for him,” Mr. Samson tells her, his eyes full of disapproval.

Hermione narrows her eyes. “What boarding school is this?”

“Some school called Hogwarts.” Not noticing Hermione’s dropped jaw, Mrs. Samson shrugs. “But, pardon me. I don’t see how this is important. I don’t understand why you must question her boyfriend.”

“I’m hoping I might be able to talk to him.”

She snorts. “Fat chance. The boarding school—”

Hermione interrupts. “It’s highly likely I will be able to reach him. Can you give me his name?” With her hand clasped in front of her, she patiently waits for their answer.

“Corey. Corey Vex. You might be able to talk to his father. Samuel Vex. He lives at the corner of our neighborhood.”

_V._

From Vex’s own mouth and his memories, Tom is able to piece together a strong enough story to explain the answers to his questions. After getting divorced from his wife, Vex managed to catch the attention of a pretty woman. He was—and still is—the richest man in his neighborhood. The woman introduced him to a few of her “friends,” and he played poker day and night until he lost a substantial amount of money. It was an accident when he and his new flame were fighting out in the neighborhood. It was an accident when his new flame’s partner—both who are con artists—started casting Memory Charms on every Muggle they could see on that afternoon out of fear they would be caught by the Magical Law Enforcement. It was by luck Vex interrupted a Memory Charm on his son’s Muggle girlfriend. It was by bad karma she went to the hospital, and his son—after getting healed by a violent curse and is now back at Hogwarts—will not owl him back.

Tom sits back in his seat, settling in the booth. “Aren’t you in a whole pile of trouble, Mr. Vex? You should have reported them to the local authorities. You wouldn’t have gone into trouble. But now. . .”

He gives him a look. “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. But I thought over it, and then I sent that letter. Maybe the Magical Law Enforcement could do something about it. Without involving me. But I was wrong.”

“If you cooperate, we would be able to find these people. Can you tell me their operation?”

Vex talks some more, trying to gather and remember whatever information he knows. Apparently, he is not the only wizard who has been snared by the two con artists. All of them didn’t report their loss due to gambling—mostly out of embarrassment. He adds, “I can give you their names. But they better not know it came from me.”

“Not a problem.”

Then the door opens, and someone lets in a cold draft from the midnight chill. Tom tightens his black coat, and the hairs on his neck stands up.

“What are you doing here?”

_VI._

They spend the rest of their day trying to find Samuel Vex. His work place is closed. His tax forms reveal that he has lost an amount of gambling—but not as big as they expected it to be reported as. A sample of his writing proves to be a match for the anonymous letter. That means they are on the right track. Vex is their victim.

It is when they talk with his assistant do they get an answer. Every few days or so, Samuel Vex enjoys a cup of tea at Merlin’s Tea Café and orders a few of their bagels as a midnight snack. d’Arcy and Hermione Apparate over to the café, hoping to catch him before he heads home.

They enter through the front door, the bell jiggling pleasantly. She stops a brunette waitress and asks, “Excuse me? Is there a Samuel Vex here?” She flashes her Auror badge, and the waitress’ eyes widen in shock.

The waitress gestures to the back of the café, her eyes wide. She stammers, “He is. . . over there with the man with the black hair and black coat.” She sucks in a quick breath and asks, “I’m sorry, but is there a problem here? Samuel can’t be in trouble. . . Is he?”

“We only want to talk to him,” says d’Arcy.

The two female Aurors walk over to the two men sitting at the corner booth. Hermione’s nose sniff, as she senses a cologne a certain person enjoys using in his masquerade as a normal person. It is that cologne that always smells like money—pure, wasted money. It’s that pretentious brand, and it’s probably something the Malfoys love to spray themselves with.

“What are you doing here?” she blurts out loud.

Stiffening, Tom Riddle turns his head. “Having tea.”

d’Arcy looks far less impressed than Hermione. Crossing her arms, she says, “Where is Park, Smith? He is supposed to be—”

“He is not required to babysit me,” Tom interrupts. He pauses, taking a very, very long time sipping tea and planting it back on his saucer. “I was simply asking questions. Investigating, as you have told me to. Finding the wizard who has written the tip. I think the proper question is this: How are you two here?”

Vex blinks. “Wait, who are you people?”

d’Arcy flashes her badge at him. “Sondra d’Arcy from the Auror Office.” She juts her chin out towards Tom. “That man you’ve been talking to is Thomas Smith from the Auror Office. And this is Her—”

“Hermione Granger!” Vex’s eyes widen in recognition. “Harry Potter’s best friend. Also from the Auror Office, huh?”

Out of habit, Hermione glances around—and she is completely relieved no one seems to hear a thing coming out of his mouth.

To Hermione, Tom says, “Muffliato. It prevents nosy people from listening into conversations.” He eyes a certain waitress, who is giving him a little giggle when he accidentally catches her eye.

“Don’t blame Liliana. She likes pretty faces. Always loves getting into their businesses even though she is just an annoyance. Ignore the modest fact she always puts one. That girl is hunting,” says Samuel, giving them all a curious eye. Silence. Then he can’t take it anymore. “She is very, very boy-crazy. Her hormones are out of the place. My son can’t remember how many times she slipped her phone number underneath his tea cup. She has been doing that for the last two years.”

Hermione clears her throat. “Regardless, we need to discuss with you about an incident involving Lydia Samson. She is your neighbor’s daughter.”

Vex nods. “I know who she is. It’s my fault she ended up that way.”

d’Arcy conjures two chairs next to the booth, and the two female Aurors sit down to listen to his story. In the verbal form.

_VII._

Once Vex leaves the café, Tom sips his cup as d’Arcy climbs into Vex’s vacant seat. Hermione sits at the side of the table, her eyes darting back and forth between the two. She sits back, just waiting for that pin to drop. Wait for it. . .

Tom doesn’t even have a second to put his tea cup back onto his saucer when d’Arcy begins interrogating him.

“How did you find him?” she asks, her eyes narrowed at Tom.

“I got lucky,” he only says.

“How did you get lucky?”

He takes a sip again, raising his eyebrow. “I started opening tax forms left, right, and center. I suspected something was off about Mr. Vex’s tax form. I came here.”

d’Arcy narrows her eyes even further, squinting. “Really? When did you get here?”

“An hour before you two arrived.”

d’Arcy tilts her head, looking slightly impressed. “But can you tell me why you arrived here without your partner?”

Tom gives her an innocent look. “I didn’t know that I was required to have a partner with me at all times. I apologize for not bringing Park along, but I thought he was very happy with eating his honey buns, Auror d’Arcy.”

Hermione covers her mouth. She has never thought that the Dark Lord could play innocent, obedient, flippant, and sarcastic—all at the same time. This. . .

He should have been a politician. He would have done well. Or even better than well. He probably could have ruled the world with his charm alone. d’Arcy clearly doesn’t want to believe his words, but she is nodding at him with a solemn expression.

She raises a finger at him in warning. “Alright. I’ll let you off this time. But the next time you go somewhere without your partner, I will not be pleased in any way and you will find yourself kicking yourself. Understand that, Smith?”

He nods. But as soon as d’Arcy looks away, a small smile curves on his lips.

He has gotten away with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review.


	13. Chapter 13

_I._

Perhaps it is only a matter of time until they finally catch up to the one of the con artists, but no one in Hermione’s team expected to find her within two days of finding Vex. It is Hermione who manages to find her at the corner between a Muggle drugstore and an emergency medical clinic. She is conning the Muggles out of their money using a trick card game that mixes a little bit of betting into it. Hermione is able to recognize Fiona—the old flame Vex mentioned. She has the exact red hair and the homely brown eyes he describes. It helps that he sat with a sketch artist just an hour ago.

It also helps that Hermione was paying attention to Glasgow’s police scanner. The con artist was reported by a concerned doctor working at the medical clinic.

d’Arcy and Hermione put up Anti-Apparition Wards and wait for Fiona to panic when she realizes she can’t escape the angry Muggles who were ripped off. Glasgow’s police officers haul her towards their cruiser, and it is that moment—right before she could step over the wards—when Hermione shows her badge at the officers.

“Excuse me.”

The officer nods. “Alright. You can have her.” He uncuffs Fiona and pushes her towards Hermione and d’Arcy. “You will be going with them.”

It takes only a moment for d’Arcy to cast the Anti-Muggle Ward around this area so the three women could finally have Apparate back towards the Auror Office, so they can finally interrogate Fiona for more information.

_II._

Unsurprisingly, it is Tom Riddle who will be asking questions in the white interrogation room. There are splats of coffee and tea all over the floor that will never wash out, and the room smells faintly of cinnamon and reeks of Muggle chemicals for a bizarre reason. Beneath his head, there is a one-way glass. The other side has his colleagues listening into every word and sentence he says to her and everything she says to him.

She smiles seductively at him. “Hello. Who are you?”

Inwardly, he smirks. Outwardly, he gives her a simple nod and leans closer to her than necessary. He can already hear d’Arcy choking in shock about inappropriate behavior—but he can hardly give a damn. He tells her, “Fiona.” Her name rolls off his tongue with all the right syllables and just enough of a temptation for her. He can play this game.

“Yes?”

“I have a problem. You see. . .” His head tilts to the side, and he gives her an intense look—which causes her to furiously blush. “. . .there is a _bad man_ out there.”

“Uh-huh.” She watches his every micro-expression and micro-movement, her jaw dropping slightly. “Yes.”

His eyes close a little, and he practically purrs out her name. “ _Fiona_ , I want a favor.”

Stunned by his every move, she nods without even understanding his words. She blurts out, “Whatever you want. Whenever you want.” Bits of pleasure crosses her mind and thoughts as she dreams the most tempting of thoughts.

Hook.

“Your boyfriend.” His eyes land on hers.

Flashes of her con artist/partner crosses her mind. He smirks, pleased to be right on track. So the con artist is her beau. That is good. He picks up his face, memorizing the tanned lines and the dirty hair that always covers his eyes.

“I want him.”

Even dirtier thoughts run across her mind.

“Tell me how to find him.”

Moving underneath a spell he cast, she stands up and slips around the table separating him and her. Knowing that d’Arcy is most definitely fainting due to a countless number of broken interrogation rules, he amuses himself with those images all while Fiona whispers her precious secrets into his ear for his approval.

When she is done, she looks at him with a bright eagerness.

“You will be rewarded,” he murmurs, lies dripping from his mouth and seduction and temptation all wrapped into his words. Her words echo around in his head as he analyze the more important information to be passed onto his colleagues. “Thank you. _Fiona_.” Her name is hissed—and she doesn’t recognize the snake in front of her.

_III._

She isn’t sure whether or not if his charms are coming back or if they have always been there. But they are scary—and so, so tempting and beautiful and organic and realistic and heartrending and. . . She can go on and on about the way he acts, and that is when Hermione realizes that he really is dangerous. Not because of his knowledge in the Dark Arts, but because of his hold over people. He truly could become a politician, do something worse than Hitler, and still manage to gain the love of everyone and everybody around him.

Heather Chase, a mousy young Auror who used to part of Inverness Squad, remarks, “Hermione, he sounds just like sex!” She quickly covers her mouth when she catches the disapproving gaze of one Auror Sondra d’Arcy.

She checks her clock while she watches Fiona hovering over Tom with lust-filled eyes. He doesn’t seem to mind—nor wish to beat her off by the stick.

He has only been in there for three minutes, and she is already melting in front of him and giving away every bit of her soul to the true devil in the interrogation room—and she doesn’t realize it. Perhaps the difference between Fiona and Hermione is that only Hermione knows who he truly is—and Fiona was totally unprepared for him in the first place.

That thought does not bode well with her.

The day Tom Riddle decides to take over the world is the day everyone is doomed. No one—maybe not even her—would be prepared for that day.

_IV._

Cards. Playing cards without magic. In an underground casino.

Fiona’s information is correct, and he is pleased to be under the impressed eye of one Auror d’Arcy. Though he has stepped and blurred the line of breaking the interrogation rules, he has gained her respect and admiration.

Of course, he would graciously and modestly throw off all compliments.

He might even be a team leader by the end of the year at this rate, if he keeps up the “good work” as d’Arcy calls it. Harry Potter is one of the highest ranking official in the Auror Office after six years of being an employee.

As he sets down his card and wins a few galleons, he wonders if he could beat Mr. Potter’s record. He may be good, but now that Tom Riddle is whole once again and powerful and hidden, he is better. Far better.

“Congratulations, sir,” says the dealer. “You’re up six hundred galleons.”

Tom smiles as his opponent slinks away—defeated thoroughly with a healthy dose of humiliation. He only needs to be cursed and hexed a few times to make it even more complete. But he’ll settle for public humiliation. For now.

_V._

Dressed in a shiny purple dress with sparkly pink heels, Hermione is _not_ having a good day. It’s one thing dressing like a party girl, but it is another thing to act like one. She reeks of Firewhiskey, and a faux dazed look lingers in her eyes as she casually and excitedly wander around while she openly ogles at wizards and witches playing cards. Occasionally, she’ll flirt—a lot—while keeping an eye on Riddle. Heather is also playing drunk party girl—but at the north exit.

There. She finds a leather jacket man on the prowl towards Tom. That is Fiona’s boyfriend and con artist partner. The physical descriptions—bald, smells like ginseng, oily grey hair, and slimy in looks and personality—matches. In short steps due to her four-inch tall heels, Hermione follows him and watches him sit down at Riddle’s poker table.

Now, this is going to be interesting.

She strolls over to a nearby table and give moony eyes at a distracted poker player while his opponent casually takes a peek at his cards.

“High roller?” says Fiona’s boyfriend, Shane.

“I wouldn’t know. It depends on how high I go.”

A pause.

Shane asks, “Tell me. What’s your secret? What makes you so good at poker?” He chuckles. “I play cards, and I can’t keep my money in my pockets.”

Planting down a few cards, Riddle answers, “I’m not a fool to reveal all of my cards. Or my hands. I think you would understand that.”

The boyfriend laughs. “Trade secrets.”

“Do you run this place?”

“Yes. I own it. Do you like it?” Shane laughs again. “It’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

A pause. “Well, I might. But there’s a problem, you see, Shane Hardinge.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. Her hands slowly move towards her legs—towards her holster. She needs to be ready to stun Shane.

“How do you know my name?” he inquires warily, backing away slowly.

“Wel. . . Remember your question? Why am I so good at poker? It helps that I have certain charms that prevent me from losing in a very unfair way. Such as when a certain underground casino is trying to leech off my galleons by encouraging my eyes to be fooled by lookalike cards. Or perhaps when cards are added to make me lose. Or perhaps. . .”

Hermione quickly glances.

Bugger. Tom already has his wand out.

Casually as if he is only reading a shopping list, Tom announces, “Shane Hardinge, you are under arrest for running an illegal casino that is not registered with the official Ministry of Magic’s—”

He runs for it.

At the same time, two jets of blue light hits him in the back.

She glares at Tom as the teams of Aurors begin to gather witnesses everywhere. In the middle of the chaos, she yells, “You were—”

“I did all the right procedures,” he tells her, flashing her a grin. “Instead of wasting another four hours of waiting around to poke the suspect for questions, I asked him outright. You’re welcome.” With long and graceful strides that reek of smug satisfaction and a sense of superiority, he strolls away from her and completely ignore the storm around him.

_VI._

Another case closed. Hermione’s boss—Elliot Quinn—is impressed, and Sondra d’Arcy is finally pulled from her team along with Dallas. The other two senior Aurors will be staying until the end of the year—or so Quinn says. It doesn’t matter, though. Two less babysitters are off her list and her team, and they can’t run interference on her ever again. She is closer to being an actual Auror team leader than a Auror trainee who is playing captain on a ship.

But it irks Hermione that d’Arcy has nothing but praise and admiration for Tom. Only a footnote warns of his tendency to skirt the rules for interrogation.

No one reads footnotes. Except for her. Except for those who pay attention.

No one is paying attention to him.

Trapped, isolated, and powerless than ever before, Tom Riddle still remains alive even when stuck underneath the devil’s thumb. Even though she is mostly horrified by how manipulative and conniving and cunning he is with his hands stuck in a block of concrete, she holds a candle of admiration and pure wonder and curiosity for him. He may have captured two con artist today, but he is the biggest con artist of all.

_VII._

He comes home by midnight. Pulling off his robes, he strips down to his black briefs and moves over to his desk for work and potions and such. He leans down, eyeing a piece of bezoar he has cut this morning. New ideas and inventions don’t come out of nowhere. They come from experimentation, and potion supplies and equipment for experiments are one of the few things he bought first as soon as he received his paycheck. Casually brushing away stray bits of his hair away from his eyes, he slowly dips it into the steamy, milk-white potion in the pewter cauldron.

Then he lets it go, his eyes analyzing the potion carefully.

He is no Snape—the Potion Master—but he is very good nevertheless.

The potion turns into a bright color of grass green, and he nearly smiles—but too soon. The potion bubbles once. Then twice. Then faster and faster and faster as it begins eating away the cauldron with vigor. He watches with horror as he sees the potion going to rubbish.

He waves his wand, and the potion disappears—but not without some damage to the cauldron. He huffs at the singed edges and the nasty cracks forming along the sides. He will have to buy a new one tomorrow. He knows that without a doubt.

Rubbing his forehead with thought, he opens a black journal, grabs a quill, and writes: _Experiment #152, brief success for approx. 7 seconds before degrading_. _Nearly exploded. Pewter cauldron cracked and partially destroyed. Will replace tomorrow. Perhaps I shouldn’t include bezoar at all? Or maybe a trace amount?_

He throws his journal off to the side and stares off to the distance—sulking. The potion could be used as an excellent weapon, but that isn’t his intention.

His mind begins to wander off, and he eventually comes to the subject of Hermione Granger. Oh, what should he do with her? There are duties he must due. . .

But it would be far better if he could be free of her.

He leans back and purses his lips. Exactly what could he do to her? He has a clear mindset of how to gain power subtly through the ranks of the Auror Office. He knows how to connect himself with politicians and influential members of the Wizarding World. But Hermione Granger? She is an annoyance, who is calling on him whenever she is in a great amount of danger—

Speaking of danger, his head is now being torn apart due to her again.

He stands up, grumbling, and slips on a black robe. Must she call at this late hour? He feels like her little guard dog—and no one, no one will keep Lord Voldemort on a chain for long without his will, his want, and his consent.

The day he breaks from the devil’s sentence is the day he holds the match over the world to start a forest fire that will remake the world.

He has a list of where to start.

Thrasher.

The devil.

Harry Potter.

His followers who have abandoned him.

And finally, after she has watched the world burn, he will end her. Hermione Granger. He is going to hurt her for every single time she has called him to her side. A cruel smirks forms on his mouth. He can almost taste his revenge as he Apparate away.

_VIII._

This is a terrible area to live in, she realizes for the tenth time. She is not poor by any means, but she knows that she has to save money so she could finally buy an actual place for herself. After moving out of the apartment, she starts anew in a Wizarding community tucked between two Muggle communities. The only problem is that that small little town in Edinburgh has a nasty street war involving two gangs fighting for control. It has been the local authorities’ problems for months, and she decided to rent the place just to torture Tom a little more.

That is until she found out how loud it was at night. Not even all the sound-related charms she casts on her home and the general area of her loft could cancel out the noise of fighting, screaming, shouting from various problems in the neighborhood. For example, she doesn’t want to know about the domestic abuse happening above her loft. Calling the local Magical Law Enforcement Patrol officers didn’t do jack. They merely twiddled their thumbs until she threated them with a report. Then they half-hearted—only half-hearted without trying for any change—try to convince the couple to take their grievances to a counselor. From that moment on, she has discovered that Belberry is a really bad town.

In Inverness, there are no such problems as gang wars, extreme domestic violence, murders, mobs. . . Belberry—the community—is a battlefield and no one should be living here.

Not even the fifth time of trying to get authorities to take action does anything for the town as a whole. After reporting about the dead body next to the front gate and questioning why the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol’s local office wouldn’t do anything, the officer sheepishly looked at Hermione and finally admitted, “The local office is swamped with cases. The department itself gave up on Belberry and crossed it off as a lost cause. Belberry is too extreme and spits out anyone who tries to make a difference. The only thing Belberry responds to is violence and force. Even then. . . It’s hard to make a real change around here.”

She is especially not amused when someone has casted a Reductor Curse against her wards on the entire complex while screaming about lost magical mushrooms the wizard “knows is hiding in there.” She is especially not amused when said wizard starts attempting to tear down the entire building’s foundation to find the drugs.

When she hears the fourteenth Reductor Curse being cast, she has enough and leaves the boiling potion unattended for a moment to give the wizard a piece of her mind. She lets the spoon stir for the required hour. Picking up her wand, she Apparate to the edge of her wards.

A sudden chill sends her shivering, but her eyes widen at the wizard who is shouting the curse over and over again with white foam in his mouth. He reminds her of a rabid dog, and when he spies her, he screams, “Delanie! Let me in! I need those mushrooms!”

Delanie is Hermione’s batshit crazy neighbor on the fifth floor. Only thirty-seven years old, she also happens to be passed out in the lobby due to the countless shots of Firewhiskey she has drank—or at least, that is what Hermione has seen two hours ago. She probably still is there. Drunk people—especially when they are _that_ drunk—don’t tend to move around. Hollering out towards Delanie’s acquaintance, she raises her hands to cup her mouth. “She is not here! Get the heck out of here!”

“Delanie! Don’t be like that, baby! I know I was wrong in a lot of ways, but I promise you that I’ll never bother you again if I get those mushrooms!” The wizard falls to his knees, moving to the edge of the ward and bowing down to Hermione. “Please, please! He’s going to kill me.”

Months ago, Hermione might have actually helped him. But it is the present time, and she is not in the mood to deal with this. She has a Dark Lord who is power-hungry and inching towards/planning something devious, and she doesn’t need to get in the middle of this bloke’s problems. She has learned too brutally that people in this town tend to be either really, really bad characters or be on the leash of those bad characters. As the only Auror in this area, she does not want to cross anyone without a backup team of Aurors. She may be impulsive, and she may be self-righteous at times, but she technically doesn’t have any jurisdiction here. Nor is she suicidal. She has seen too many dead bodies within the months she has been here. _Sneak_. That is the word written on their bloody, dead torsos.

One gang alone outnumbers her by one to six hundred.

Not suicidal.

The only plan she has for herself is to keep her nose clean and her head down until she can figure out a way to quietly remove the leaders of the gang without the town disappearing into a full-on battlefield with dead bodies at every corner. The town is too prone to violence, and it is too easy for someone to replace the leaders. She needs to figure out a way to stop all of their income, their business, and their ways.

“Sir, you need to leave the premise!” she screams back.

“Let me in! Let me in! Find those mushrooms, Delanie!”

Then comes a few dark figures in the sky. Her heart sinks, when she recognizes the symbols on the back of their jackets. Holding her wand even tighter, she slips into the shadows behind the tree and prepare herself to witness something truly horrifying.

The Falcons gang control the north side of the community, not right in the area she lives in. It means that they are deliberately infringing on the Panthers’ ground—and if any Panther member catch them, it is a full-on war. She closes her eyes in a wince and mentally beg the universe that she has not just seen that. The wizard casting curses at the ward is bad enough. But giving the gangs incentive to fight? That is far worse.

One Falcon gangster kicks the side of the wizard without mercy. He pulls out a crooked wand and huskily remarks, “Greaser, you still owe us those mushrooms. You never paid up.”

She groans. Greaser is one of those bad characters. And one on the leash. She stares at the tanned man underneath the foot of the Falcon gangster with something close to pity. Pulling out her wand, she carefully listens for more information.

Greaser chokes out, “I. . . I’m sorry.”

The gangster kicks him again while his buddies laugh. “Not good enough. You see, Greaser, we need those mushrooms. Otherwise, we don’t got much of anything. Apologizes aren’t enough. You should know.” He points his wand, gesturing. “You said that to me once. Remember? I was about yea high”—he lowers his hand to his hip—“and just a tiny kid. And when I stepped on your broomstick, I tried to apologize. What did I say?”

A pause.

The gangster steps on him, his feet on his neck. “Tell me, Greaser. Tell me. Tell me! What did I say to you? Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember?”

Hermione sighs. Great. A gangster who is out for blood and a torture session. That is even worse. She is sure it can’t get any worse until she sees several streaks in the sky and several men with a lounging Panther on the back of his jacket fly by. They send off bright jets of light towards the gangsters, screaming about territory.

Greaser takes advantage of the chaos to run down the street and Apparate to safety while the Falcons and the Panthers pair off against each other. Panthers, on brooms. Falcons, on the streets and huddling behind trees and such for cover.

She has thought too soon. It could get even worse.

Stepping over the ward, she raises her wand towards the sky and screams, “ _Bombarda_!” The sound of the explosion in midair rocks the entire neighborhood. The two gangs stop their fighting briefly to examine the new player. Without missing a beat, she waves her wand around to summon trash cans to take various Dark curses that are too dangerous to stop with a simple Shield Charm. Moving towards the tree provides some protection, but she is still out in the open.

One of the Falcons sends a bright green curse at her, which is then wiped away by a passing trash can. A Panther fires another curse from behind, and she narrows her eyes as she simply moves aside to let the curse fly into another Panther in front of her. The man gasps sharply, clutches his stomach, and promptly throws up some odd orange, chunky fluid.

Great. She has to get involved in a three-way fight.

Gritting her teeth, she concentrates as she manipulates various trash cans and objects to fly around in the air and to chase various gangsters. Lights flash by her, spells whiz by, and she gnash her teeth even tighter together. Where is Tom Riddle when she actually wants him?

Never mind. She will bloody solve this problem herself. She has lived without him. She is living with him. But she doesn’t need him.

“Lady! Get your nose out of our business! You are on our turf!” screams by a passing gangster flying overhead, firing a hex at her head.

The Stinging Hex manages to skim part of her shoulder, blood drips down onto her lovely white blouse, and she snarls in anger. She has to end this. Before anyone else gets hurt or dies.

She raises her wand up in pure rage.

She has an Aging Potion to finish.

She opens her mouth to pronounce the incantation.

They ruined her blouse. The one Ron got for her the one time he didn’t forget her birthday. The only one that wasn’t ruined by her job at some point or another.

The trash cans fall towards the ground.

And she has a freaking Dark Lord leashed to her. Who has somehow came back and is getting better over her even though she has anticipated the fact that he might try to grab power.

So yeah, she is having a fairly bad day.

And she wants this to be over. Now.

“ _Fiendfyre_!” she whispers softly. So soft no one can hear.

Flames in the shape of a raging lion fly in the air, snapping angrily at the gangsters. Some of them even try summoning water to no avail. The sheer heat of the dangerous magical fire makes beads of sweat form on her back, but she continuously feeds it with a steady stream of her magic and forces her will on it. It is a dangerous spell for a reason. Few can actually manage the amount of strength and control to actually force the spell to do its master’s bidding.

The lion duplicates and nips the back of some broomsticks. The broomsticks quickly catch on fire, and she casts, “Arresto momentum!” Their fall slows, and ropes quickly wrap around the frightened gangsters.

She narrows her eyes at the rest of them escape.

Waving her wand one more time, one of the most dangerous fires in the world burn out and vanquish itself. The gangsters she has captured will be useful, she muses. A warning. A very, very strong warning that will be the only way to send a message in this sort of town.

At least, she could do something while she figures out her other problems.

_IX._

He is about to step in until Hermione casts the one spell he never expects her to cast. Fiendfyre. His breath catches when he watches her move around her wand with a fluidity of a master. She has cast this spell before. She has, and that fact surprises him.

He knows from her memories that she has a vicious side. Keeping a person in a jar? Getting blackmail material on someone? Coldly watching a woman be dragged by the centaurs to be mentally and physically destroyed? If he doesn’t know any better, he would say that Hermione Granger would have made a fine Death Eater.

Her reputation may have her shine as the most powerful witch of the good side, but he didn’t listen to rumors and gossips for nothing. Unlike Harry Potter or Ron Weasley’s reputation, Hermione Granger actually has a few hush-hush rumors about her. Nothing that could actually pinpoint her or make her look guilty. All that gossip wasn’t enough for him to be convinced of something devious about Granger. But now. . .

Seeing those flames bursting from the tip of her wand and witnessing her cast one of the darkest curses in the Dark Arts, he knows. He knows that she is not pure of heart. It draws him back to a time when Headmaster Dippet thought him as one of the best Slytherins at Hogwarts and never suspected him of something horrible. Of course, the students at Hogwarts suspected—or at least, some of them did—but no one could prove anything substantial.

He finds the witch absolutely engrossing to watch. Who knew that this Gryffindor would be so capable of Slytherin deceit?

He follows her to the town square and watch her magically tie the four unconscious gangsters to the three flagpoles. Their clothes are quickly banished except for their undergarments, and he casually watches as Hermione nonverbally casts something on their chests.

It is after she Apparate that he could see the sentence they form.

WATCH. YOUR. BACK. BELBERRY.

His lips curve, and he stares at them for a long time. She has actually cut into them, forcing them to bleed around those cuts. It would be so much fun if he could actually have his way with them. But no.

He could admire Hermione’s work of art.

He moves towards them and tilts his head. It still isn’t good enough. Raising his beloved wand, he says, “I’m protecting Hermione Granger.”

He could hear her scoff at his words.

He whispers, “ _Obliviate_.” A white glow appears on all of their faces, and he pats himself down just to make sure nothing funny happens to him. Conjuring a mirror from thin air, he finds himself whole—without a single scratch or mark or a different hairstyle. It works. Without any backfire.

Then satisfied, he steps back and nods. Now, her work of art is finished. Ready to be seen. The right about of boldness and cunning.

His eyes narrow suddenly. There were witnesses. . .

Well, he can’t simply leave this mess unattended—even though Hermione was difficult to see and recognize in the dark. He gleefully Apparate from the town square and begins to head back to the exact place Hermione has fought. It is time to go hunting.

He smirks, feeling much happier than ever.

There will be a sudden influx of wizards and witches who suddenly forgot witnessing Hermione Granger cast the Dark Arts tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I feel like this is one of my weaker chapters. What do you think?
> 
> Read and review!


	14. Chapter 14

_I._

Hermione is dead tired.

One week after setting up that message in Belberry’s town square, she feels as if she has two jobs. One is as the secret vigilante who is trying to fight against two gangs, and the other one is as an Auror who travels to so many places so frequently. She is hopping around Scotland, and she won’t be stopping any time soon.

It also bothers her how someone has wiped the memories of a lot of gangsters on that night. She has a strong inkling of who it is, and under his careful, thoughtful, and watchful gaze, she feels as if she is being stripped to her very bones and examined at her very core. Hermione is cautious and never lets herself be isolated with Riddle unless she is in some sort of danger. Even then, she doesn’t talk to him. She runs as soon as he helps her out whatever sticky situation she manages to get into.

She isn’t sure what he’ll say.

It won’t be anything good.

She knows.

_II._

The day Elliot Quinn appears in her office is the day she knows that she is given something really, really nasty. A dangerous case. An intriguing case. A case that needs to be kept secret. Why else would he give it to her in person rather than in letter?

He even appears solemn. His grey suit sags and clings to his body, and his eyes have a heavy shadow. Disregarding the sexual harassment rule, he closes the door to turn on the eavesdroppers wards. She sits back and asks, “What is going on?”

“How well do you know Hogwarts?”

She digs back to her days of sneaking around Hogwarts and visiting the darkest and most secret parts of the castle. Meeting Quinn’s eyes, she answers, “I probably know it better than most, Elliot. Tell me. What is the case about?”

He drops a file on her desk and commands, “Don’t read it. Yet.” A pause. “This case is top secret. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t talk to the press. You will be going undercover as a professor at Hogwarts. The DADA position. Discuss this quietly with your team. Understand? You have until the end of this school semester to. . .”

He mouth opens and closes. He shakes his head, blinking. “Just read the file, Hermione. This is top priority. Disregard any cases I’ve given to you. Find them quickly. Before this turns into a media storm.”

He quickly rushes out of her office, and slowly and ignoring the eyes of the curious Aurors peeking into her office, she picks up the file and scans it.

Her jaw drops.

She needs to take this to her team. Immediately. There is no time to waste.

_III._

**INCIDENT REPORT #1: DISAPPEARANCE OF ANDREW WILSON**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: AT APPROXIMATELY NINE AT NIGHT, ANDREW WILSON WAS REPORTED BY THE RAVENCLAW HEAD BOY OF HIS DISAPPEARANCE. ANDREW WILSON, A FIRST YEAR, SEEMINGLY DISAPPEARED WITHOUT A TRACE AFTER ATTENDING HIS LAST CLASS, CHARMS. WILSON NEVER MADE IT TO BED BEFORE THE CURFEW SET FOR FIRST YEARS. ANDREW WILSON IS IN RAVENCLAW.**

**REPORT FILED BY: AUROR JASMINE CANE (083729-JC) OF THE AUROR OFFICE IN SCOTLAND, TEAM MEMBER UNDER JAMESON (081243-SJ).**

**DATE: 2 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 11 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: POSSIBLE KIDNAPPING, DISAPPEARANCE OF UNDERAGE WIZARD**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: IMMEDIATE**

_IV._

**INCIDENT REPORT #2: DISAPPEARANCE OF PEGGY LISSA IO**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: AT APPROXIMATELY EIGHT THIRTY AT NIGHT, PEGGY LISSA IO WAS REPORTED MISSING BY PREFECT RUWA MUNYA OF HUFFLEPUFF. RUWA MUNYA NOTICED HER ABSENCE AFTER FAILING TO CHECK IN. PEGGY LISSA LO IS A SECOND YEAR AT HOGWARTS SCHOOL. SHE HAS DISAPPEARED WITHOUT A TRACE. PEGGY LISSA IO IS IN HUFFLEPUFF.**

**REPORT FILED BY: AUROR BEN BERNARD (058392-BB) OF THE AUROR OFFICE IN SCOTLAND, TEAM MEMBER UNDER FOX (034212-BF).**

**DATE: 4 FEBRUARY 2005**

**TYPE OF CRIME: POSSIBLE KIDNAPPING, DISAPPEARANCE OF UNDERAGE WIZARD**

**CHILD AGE: 12 YEARS OLD**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH PRIORITY**

**NOTES: ANOTHER STUDENT HAS PREVIOUSLY DISAPPEARED ONLY TWO DAYS BEFORE. THIS CASE IS NO LONGER A SIMPLE DISAPPEARANCE. (BB)**

**ADDITIONAL NOTES: RECOMMENDED TO AUROR GRANGER OR AUROR POTTER. IN THEIR EARLIER YEARS AT HOGWARTS, THEY HAVE A KNACK OF SOLVING PROBLEMS BACK THEN. THEY MAY STILL HAVE THE SKILL AND LUCK TO SOLVE THIS. (BF)**

_V._

“All cases must be dropped immediately,” says Hermione, immediately passing out copies of the new case as soon as she closes the door of the conference room. She glares at the two senior Aurors. “That means no consultations with other Aurors. No little cases on the side. No businesses on the side. We have a high priority case here.”

Tom immediately straightens up, paying attention. High priority? What sort of case would require “high priority” to the point the senior Aurors must pay attention to just one case? What sort of case have they given to Granger? What sort of case did they trust her with?

Hermione waves her wand at the bulletin board next to her. A few points fly up, summarizing her words in short ways. “Hogwarts is having a case of disappearing students. Two of them have already disappeared. One disappeared three days ago. Another, yesterday. No trace. Nothing. The previous Aurors who have assessed this case determines that it must be an attack on the younger students. Which is to say—”

“—they are the most vulnerable,” finishes Park.

Without missing a beat or getting offended by the interruption, Hermione nods. “Correct. The press has not been informed of the disappearing students, although the parents of the missing students have been notified. No one can approach the press. If you do, you would find yourself regretting that choice. Think carefully.”

A pause.

Then Hermione continues on as if she hasn’t implied anything suspicious. “We need to gather information. A team of Hit Wizards are already at Hogwarts. We will be Flooing there in an hour. I have already taken up a temporary job as the DADA Professor after Quinn has persuaded the DADA to take a brief leave, and Chase and Smith have their own undercover roles to play.” She passes two grey folders towards him and then to Chase.

He raises an eyebrow. “But you? As DADA Professor? It is not undercover.”

“No. But Quinn has already set up parts of the case in order to scout for more information,” says Hermione, her eyes glancing at her bulletin board rather than Tom’s probing eyes. “You will all notice Quinn’s fingertips over certain parts of the case he has prepared for us. Originally, he was going to send Auror Potter and his teams instead, but unfortunately, Auror Potter is busy dealing with a problem in France.”

He marvels at the slightly annoyed undertone in her voice. Is she upset that she wasn’t picked first? Or was she upset that Quinn has already set up her own case?

Interesting. He finds himself wanting to learn more about this witch—even though it is clear she isn’t good for him in any way.

“This sounds remarkable similar to one case that happened over a decade ago at Hogwarts,” notes Richmond, flipping through the files. “But the issue was with the Chamber of Secrets and petrified students. Instead of disappeared students. Is it anywhere possible that Voldemort has come back somehow?”

Everyone—but Hermione and him—gives him a look.

Tom resists the urge to snicker. How ironic that Richmond has somehow managed to hit on the exact truth yet is viewed as entirely wrong. Oh, what he would give to reveal himself and see the look on everybody’s face. . . It would be delicious.

“Fat chance,” snorts Chase, pushing back her black hair. “It is highly unlikely. That evil snake monster Slytherin kept in the Chamber of Secrets is dead.”

Reaching for her own copy of the disappearance report, Hermione skims the first few pages and adds, “It might be a new threat. However, Richmond may be on track. There may be something in the past that has the exact same cases as the current one. Anyone want to stay behind in Edinburgh and research?”

Richmond—blushing beet red—and Clarkton raises their hands. Monica, tilting her head up towards Hermione, clinically says, “Hogwarts has a long history. It is easy to forget the long list of disappeared students that has happened ever since the founders established it. There are seventy-six students who have disappeared since its opening, and no one knows what happened to them. We might be able to find something.”

“Thank you, Clarkton.”

Monica nods. “Of course.”

“Anything else?” asks Hermione. Her eyes run around the room, quickly examining everyone but him. He wonders how she gets those black lines beneath her eyes. What makes her not sleep at night? What makes her act like an Inferi? What makes her look even worse than usual? What makes her look not so perfect and pristine? What tones down her bossiness?

And what exactly has stopped her from getting into so much trouble the last week or so? The first night he received an entire night’s of sleep without interruption, he almost rejoiced and broke out in song. But he composed himself. Dark Lords don’t dance or sing.

Then the second passed by. The third. The fourth. And since then, he had gotten full nights of sleep. Not even a worry on his mind or in his dreams. It was strange, and he is waiting for something nasty to happen—to him or to her. Trouble seems to find her, and she just enjoys finding trouble for him to save her from even though she can bloody well save herself.

“Thomas?” says Monica, swiveling her head. “You got anything?”

“No.”

Then Monica moves onto the next person, leaving Tom to his thoughts.

_VI._

He has never expected to return to Hogwarts while working for the Auror Office. He has never expected that Granger would allow him to. But as he walks these halls while wearing a green and silver Slytherin tie, he calmly strolls through with no one batting an eye at his sudden appearance. He has appeared from out of seemingly nowhere, and the students think he has been here all along. It takes a mixture of False Memory Charms and actual charm to get that effect.

He has the four N.E.W.T. classes, and one of them is DADA with Professor Hermione Granger—who, according to the Hogwarts’ rumor mill, has taken the position because of the disappearance of two students. They couldn’t be more right—and he is surprise by that. Back in his day, the rumor mill churned out stories above and beyond the truth and into fantasyland. Fear drove the students to speculate who exactly was behind the Chamber of Secrets, and everyone ran for their lives whenever some idiot played a loud and benign prank.

He also is a TA with Professor Slughorn, who is teaching Potions to a bunch of eleven year olds. It’s part of the increased security. Teams of Aurors prowl the corridors, they stand at the corners of the hall, and they attend every class. There is at least one per room, and Tom has never watched a class by himself. It is always with Clarkton, Park, or Richmond.

Not surprising.

The reason he’s playing the role of a student is because he can’t be recognize, no one has seen him before, he looks youthful enough to pass for the older students, and he must keep watch for anything suspicious. Students are far more likely to trust one of their own than someone from the Auror Office.

But there is a far more important thing he must do.

The Room of Requirement. He must see it. Again.

But he will be patient. Lie in wait.

He does not like the idea of students being snatched and disappearing without him knowing the reason why they are disappearing.

He slips out as soon as Professor Slughorn dismisses N.E.W.T. Potions for seventh years, and casually moves to Professor Granger’s room on the third floor for N.E.W.T. Defense Against the Dark Arts for seventh years. Sitting in the back, he doesn’t bother taking out his notes and instead leans back in his chair to watch Granger lecture.

He watches with a critical eye, wondering how she is going to teach.

“Silence,” she says, standing next to a familiar conjured bulletin board. She has a weird fondness for them, and she always uses them at every single conference. “Good evening,” she greets, her chocolate-brown eyes grave and serious. “My name is Hermione Granger. Your previous DADA professor took a brief leave to see his ill mother in Mongolia. I will be teaching for as long as he needs to take care of his mother.”

Of course, Tom knows that she will be here as long as students keep on disappearing from Hogwarts. She will be here as long as those students remain missing.

Everyone keeps their mouth shut, waiting anxiously for her words.

“Would you please tell me what you are learning right now?” A pause. “Raise hands, please.” Hermione nods at a student in the front row. “Yes, you. What is your name and what are you learning?”

“Rose Williams,” a red-haired girl answers, lowering her hand. “Professor Jonathan’s last lecture was about the Patronus Charm and the various magical creatures it could protect a witch or a wizard from.” She sounds like a classic know-it-all every class has.

Tom blinks, playing the slacker in the back every class also has. No one seems to appreciate his efforts with the exception of Granger, who narrows her eyes at him with pure lack of amusement and stunning annoyance in her eyes.

“Mr. Ontario,” says Granger, pausing in front of him and drawing everybody’s eyes. “Do you have something to say?”

He smirks. “No.”

Granger narrows her eyes. “I doubt that.” Then she smoothly walks on and back to the front of the class. “If you could cast a Patronus Charm, raise your hand.”

About a quarter of the class could. Tom doesn’t bother raising his.

“A corporeal one?”

Only four students are left with their hands up.

Granger counts them. “Put your hands down. Textbooks away and make a line at the door. We’ll be going to an empty classroom. I want to see your best at the Patronus Charm. Remember. It is all about the happy memory.”

Three minutes later, he finds himself half-heartedly casting the charm. The most he could do is silver wisps rising from the tip of his wand, and he barely bothers to try any harder. Instead, he lets his eyes wander off as he examines the other students and their spellwork. Sufficient, weak, nothing. . . He muses calculatingly as he watches Hermione Granger demonstrates her own Patronus.

A silver otter comes out, swimmingly. It moves around the room, flying and swimming in through the air with all the grace of a real otter. It swims underneath a dancing rabbit and goes around a running doe as it circles the room before fading away at last. He briefly marvels at its grace and beauty and wonders why Hermione has an otter as her Patronus. Does she love someone who has an otter as their Patronus? Did she hear a story about it?

He moves around the room, examining each student.

Bored, he moves closer to a lone student in the corner and asks, “You understand how to do any of this?” He gestures towards the room, where a majority of the students have working Patronus Charms. Many of them are on their way to casting corporeal animals, and he sees a few unique magical creatures—a dragon and a Sphinx. The chance of having those Patronus shapes are incredibly rare yet this DADA class manage to have not just one—but two.

The boy yanks at his Gryffindor tie and scowls. “This class has me buggered.”

Tom nods in politeness. “I see. Tough luck, huh? Drew the short end of the stick.”

The boy narrows his blue eyes. “Do I know you? You don’t look familiar?”

Quickly, Tom leans towards his ear and mutters a Memory Charm. He pulls himself away, unsurprised to find a dazed look on his face. He tells him, “You do realize that I was here? All seven years of Hogwarts, right?”

The boy nods like a well-trained puppet. “Yes. You were, Thomas. I simply forgot.”

He strokes the length of his wand and casually inquires, “Did you hear about that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students? Such a shame they disappeared.”

“Yes,” he mumbles. “A real shame.”

“Do you know anything about it?” he asks.

“Well, I knew Peggy Lissa Io. Always wanted to be called by her full name, and I tutored her. Her family pays for it. Lots of money for an hour,” he babbles. “I was supposed to tutor her at nine after dinner in Ravenclaw’s common room.”

Tom eyes his red and yellow tie. “But you are in Gryffindor?”

The boy’s eyes furrow in confusion. “I thought you already know that.”

“I don’t know everything about your life,” Tom tells him, looking right at him with soft, unassuming eyes of innocence. “How come you go come into Ravenclaw’s common room?”

“I solved the riddle,” he answers. “I’m a prefect. I’m allowed to go into other common rooms and tutor any other students if necessary. Some like Peggy Lissa Io want to pay me, so I could give them priority when they need my help. She was having trouble with Charms before the night she disappeared. I never got to teach her the proper wand movements.”

Tom raises an eyebrow, wondering if he is going to get any other information out of him. “Do you know anything else? Where were you when she disappeared?”

“Ravenclaw’s common room.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

The boy, still dazed and puzzled by his interaction with Tom, wanders off. After a minute of simple wandering, he begins practicing his Patronus Charms again. This time, not a single silver wisp comes out.

Tom taps his chin.

“What did you do to him?” Granger whispers furiously at him.

“Nothing Dark,” he replies, giving her an eyeroll. He glances around at the classroom and follows everyone else. Nonverbally, he casts the Patronus Charm over and over again without any success. “A little bit of some quick Memory Charm. What more are you asking for, Professor Granger?”

Her lips press tightly against one another. “I see. Did you manipulate him beyond. . .?” She gives him a look and then follows that boy without asking another question. She quickly calls him out, and he doesn’t miss a flash in her eyes as she casts a diagnostic spell on the Gryffindor.

Good, he thinks. He hates dealing with people anyway.

_VII._

She is surprised that she is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. This would be Harry’s field, not hers. She would be better in something like Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Muggle Studies. . . The list goes on and on. Her N.E.W.T. DADA score ends up as an Outstanding, but she never feels alright—especially when she thinks of her DADA’s Exceeds Expectations at O.W.L. level.

To a bunch of third years, she fondly says, “Put away your textbooks. Take your wands. Clear off your desk. We will be going to the empty classroom down the corridor.” She smiles as the students begin to whisper to each other, wondering what will happen next.

She leads the third years, and if she waits long enough, Peeves might show up to annoy her and maybe stick gum in the lock. If she walks a little bit farther, she can see herself as a third year once again and watch Professor Lupin head into the teacher’s lounge. Perhaps if she gets lost enough in her memories, she would see Professor Snape get turned into a crossdresser. Perhaps if she finds away, she might turn back to those days and travel back in time to relive the good days before war, violence, and death. It’s funny how time changes everything.

Yet it is so sad, too.

It simply reminds her of all the things one man—one single man—has managed to destroy. It really isn’t fair how one man could drag so many people’s lives to hell.

“Today, we will be facing your boggarts,” she announces, standing in front of the closed door as her students huddle around her. “Can anyone tell me what a boggart is?”

A know-it-all Ravenclaw sticks her hand up.

“Yes?”

“A boggart is a. . .” Her voice drones on, and Hermione can easily see those passed days.

_VIII._

The Room of Requirement. Hidden. Still alive in Hogwarts. The other day, he conveniently passed by the corridor on an errand for one of the professors and asked for a bathroom. He was completely unsurprised for it to show up, but he didn’t ask for anything more. He doesn’t want Thrasher to be suspicious. He has many plans for the Room of Requirement.

Curled in the corner with a heavy book on his lap, Tom watches as the first, second, and third years in Slytherin nervously made crude jokes and attempted to hide their fears.

The clock strikes eight, and he slips a bookmark between the pages. Narrowing his eyes, he begins to watch as the first years head off to bed and the prefects does a head count. They are completely relieved to find everyone there.

Holding his wand tightly in his grip, he narrows his eyes as he waits for anything strange and unusual to happen. The clock ticks. Again and again and again and again. The prefects make their patrols, nervously so. Yesterday, Peggy Lissa Io was taken.

No one could possibly know who is next.

He can feel his eyes droop when the clock’s hands tell it is closing into eight thirty. He tries a few spells to prevent himself from getting shut eye, but it does nothing. Finally, gritting his teeth, he pulls up his sleeve and casts a Cutting Curse on himself. The pain instantly shakes away all drowsiness, and awareness returns to his mind. He stands up, still bleeding out and living and breathing on pain. What could possibly make him so sleepy all of the sudden? He could feel no powerful spell—but he could sense a weird creeping force slipping over him and suffocating his mouth.

He casts the Disillusionment Charm over himself, cautious.

Where did all of the prefects go? They are supposed to be patrolling the common room and the corridors. . .

He hears a whisper and a footstep behind him and quickly turns his head.

Holding out his wand, he watches with intrigue as a Slytherin fourth year boy walks—no, more like floats—his way towards the corridors. His hazel eyes are blank—devoid of any conscience or intelligence. The boy slips out with ease and begins to hum a strange tune.

Tom blinks suddenly, wobbling. Sleep, his mind says.

Gritting to himself, he cuts himself again. Deeper this time. His blood rush through his ears, and he slowly follows the black-haired boy to wherever he is planning to go.

The noise. . .

It is music. It is somewhat familiar.

 _I forbid ye, maidens a',_  
that wear goud on your gear,  
To come and gae by Caterhaugh,  
For young Tom Line is there.

A haunting voice sings as something that sounds suspiciously like a flute plays in the background, enticing him. He narrows his eyes as he closes his left hand into a hard fist and begins clawing into his own palm. Pain. . . keeps him awake.

The Slytherin boy walks up the stairs—which strangely isn’t moving for once. None of them are moving, to be accurate. It doesn’t make any sense. Staircases love to move—frequently. Why do they choose to stop? And why now?

 _There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh_  
But they leave him a wad,  
Either their things or green mantles,  
Or else their maidenhead.

 _But Janet has kilted her green kirtle_  
A little above her knee,  
And she has broded her yellow hair  
a little above her bree,  
And she has gaen for Carterhaugh,  
As fast as she can hie.

The language. . . It sounds old.

The boy slowly moves to the second floor, his footsteps not even making a sound. Tom is only a few steps away, desperately trying to stay awake.

 _When she came to Carterhaugh_  
Tom Line was at the well,  
And there she fand his steed standing,  
But away was himsell.

The boy stops in front of a large painting of a forest. Tom’s mind—which is falling asleep once again—notices how pretty it looks with its beautiful fireflies and its sunset. He holds his breath when he sees the boy in his pajamas reaching into the painting. His foot slips in. Then his entire leg. His arm, too. His head. Finally, the last pieces and parts of his body slips into the painting as if it is only entering a pool of water—or an illusion. He quickly moves towards the painting, and without thinking—and completely lost in its enchantment—he touches the painting and slams his body against it. He falls back with a thud, bouncing off of it.

Almost tauntingly, the music emanating from the landscape painting ends with a silky voice singing again.

 _She hadna pu'd a double rose,_  
A rose but only twae,  
Till up then started young Tom Line,  
Says, Lady, thou 's pu nae mae.

With that stanza, Tom’s head leans back and he slips into darkness.

_IX._

He dreams of the world again.

He likes to dream about the world, and he enjoys seeing it under his feet and all bowed on their knees. There is nothing quite like power—with the exception of immortality, of the knowledge of knowing that in that moment he’ll never die, of the freedom without death hanging over his shoulders and counting every second passing by.

As a boy, he never liked being pushed around. He never liked things being out of his control—World War II and the constant bombings Great Britain faced over those years. It was a mess, and bombs killed everyone. It broke passed wards and defied all logic—but not physics. It’s never quite clear what the Germans would come up with. Or what Muggles would come up with. The Americans created the nuclear bomb, and Tom remembered the day headlines were paraded all around the world. No one—no Muggle—could have missed the news. America bombed Japan.

As a man, he had followers. He was rising. He had Horcruxes, and he was on the brink of becoming a true immortal. The days of a dark, brewing power, those biographers enjoy calling it.

Then the monstrous days, they say. The first Wizarding War. Beaten by Potter. The second Wizarding War. His death.

Then he is sudden alive again.

Forced to protect a Muggleborn. Alone and without his followers—who have either abandoned him or are dead. Stripped of part of his magic—stopped from casting any Dark Arts.

Still. . .

His mind wanders again. The words of his sentence and the rules Thrasher has imposed on him comes up to mind, and his clever, clever brain begins to work out another puzzle for him to untangle. All he needs is. . . time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm going on hiatus in anticipation of NaNoWriMo. I'll be back in December. Thanks for reading Speak of the Devil. 
> 
> Don't forget your reviews!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't remember writing this, but I found what I had planned for the plot. Oh, the old days where I used to be 1-2 chapters ahead of what I've been posting.

_I._

**INCIDENT REPORT #3: DISAPPEARANCE OF CHARLES BLINKY**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: CHARLES BLINKY, A FOURTH YEAR IN SLYTHERIN, DISAPPEARED FROM HIS COMMON ROOM AT APPROXIMATELY EIGHT THIRTY OR NINE AT NIGHT. PRESUMABLY, AUROR THOMAS SMITH (ID: 093382-TS) HAD MANAGED TO FOLLOW BLINKY FROM THE COMMON ROOM, WAS FOUND NEAR THE STAIRS ON THE SECOND FLOOR BY LEAD AUROR HERMIONE GRANGER (ID: 009753-HG), AND IS CURRENTLY IN A MAGICAL COMA IN THE HOSPITAL WING. FURTHER QUESTIONS WILL BE INQUIRED FROM AUROR SMITH.**

**REPORT FILED BY: D. RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR)**

**DATE: 3 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 14 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: POSSIBLE KIDNAPPING, DISAPPEARANCE OF UNDERAGE WIZARD**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (ID: 009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH**

**NOTE: RICHMOND IS FILING AND WRITING IN THE PLACE OF LEAD AUROR GRANGER.**

_II._

Three children so far.

During the three days Tom is out in a coma, there has been no other disappearances. It almost makes Hermione suspicious, except that she knows it is impossible for him to be the one who has taken the first two children. The times are off, and he actually has an alibi for them. He was doing overtime for both of those dates and never left until it was eleven at night—which is still early to leave the office, according to a majority of the Aurors.

When Tom wakes up, she rushes down to the infirmary and immediately begins questioning him without second wasted. "What happened?"

Tom runs his hands through his messy hair. "I. . . I. . . heard music."

With a clipboard in her hand and David's report in the other, Heather Chase examines him critically. "Is that all? Because it is not helpful."

"An old ballad." Tom cocks his head to the side, as if confused.

Resisting the urge to slap him in order to speed up his memory recover, Hermione inquires, "Did you see Charles Blinky leaving the common room? The Slytherin common room, Smith?"

"Blinky?"

"The Slytherin boy that was taken."

"Yes. I followed him." Tom rubs his eyes. "There was some music. But there was also a spell to keep potential witnesses sleepy. I had to. . ." He looks over to his left forearm, which is completely healed from the constant and deep Cutting Curses he made a few days ago. ". . . cut myself to keep me awake. Pain kept me awake."

"What did Blinky look like?"

"Dark hair. Completely not at home."

Hermione leans forward, sensing something. "What do you mean by that? Not at home? Are you saying that he was. . .?" She lets Tom finish it.

"Completely unaware of his actions," Tom finishes, clutching at his head. "Why is it so bright in here? And where is my wand?"

She pulls it from her pocket and hands it to him wordlessly.

_III._

On the way down to the dungeons, he tries to find that painting.

But it has been replaced with something else. A landscape portrait of a family posing for the artist. Nothing that looks remotely like a haunting forest.

_IV._

That night, he does the same thing as before. He reads a book; and when the clock strikes eight at night, he shuts his book, pulls out his wand, and drinks some powerful tea. Granger, Chase, and Park are all in the other common rooms and probably trying to keep an eye out for the next victim.

He hears the music.

But it is fainter than before.

Cautiously again, he slips out of the common room and climbs up the stairs with his wand tightly clenched around a fist.

It is coming from the Hufflepuff common room. That would be. . .

With disgust, he steps around a snoring Auror. Park. It seems that he has somehow fell asleep after following. . .

Two floors up is a Hufflepuff second year, wandering towards the source of the music. Tom, blood pumping through his veins and too excited to be sleepy, quickly runs towards the second year and call out, "Wait up! Now!"

The music increases in volume—in temptation.

_Why pou's thou the rose, Janet?  
Why breaks thou the wand?  
Why comest thou to Carterhaugh  
Withouthen my command_ _?_

"Hey!" he hollers.

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He tugs at the second year's clothes, pulling him back with his might before he steps into a glowing painting of a woman singing beautifully. Desperately, he snaps his finger. Ropes wrap around the second year's ankles and arms and tries to hold her back by tying her to the stairs.

 _Carterhaugh it is is my ain,_  
My daddy gave it me;  
I'll come and gae by Carterhaugh,  
And ask nae leave at thee.'

The girl nevertheless continues pressing on. Trying to keep walking despite the rope keeping her safe and near the stairs. Tom tries the Silencing Charm—and any charm he could use—to shut up that painting. It doesn't make any sense. What would draw a bunch of first years, second years, third years, and fourth years to a painting? What sort of magic is this?

He yawns and then suddenly pauses.

No. He can't fall asleep now.

He cuts himself on the wrist again, hissing as his own blood spills on Hogwarts' floor. The music continues to go on and on and on as the girl keeps on burning her own wrist and ankles against the ropes.

He. Must. Resist. Sleep.

 _Janet has kilted her green kirtle_  
A little aboon her knee,  
And she has snooded her yellow hair  
a little aboon her bree,  
She is on to her father's ha,  
as fast as she can hie.

Slowly, but surely, he sees nothing but darkness.

 _Four and twenty ladies fair_  
Were playing at the ba,  
And out then came fair Janet,  
The flowr amang them a'.

And his head is filled with nothing but thoughts about animals on fire.

_V._

**INCIDENT REPORT #4: ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING (?) OF ALLYSON GOODWILL**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: ALLYSON GOODWILL, A SECOND YEAR IN HUFFLEPUFF, LEFT HER COMMON ROOM AT EIGHT THIRTY AT NIGHT. SHE WAS FOLLOWED BY JOSHUA PARK (ID: 069349-JP), WHO FOLLOWED HER UNTIL HE FELL ASLEEP ON THE STAIRS. SHE WAS ALSO FOLLOWED BY THOMAS SMITH (ID: 093382-TS), WHO WAS NEXT TO HER BOUND BODY. GOODWILL WAS FOUND BOUND TO THE STAIRS WITH SMITH ASLEEP NEXT TO HER FOOT. THEY WERE ALL FOUND BY PROFESSOR SLUGHORN. BOTH SMITH AND GOODWILL HAVE INJURIES.**

**REPORT FILED BY: D. RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR)**

**DATE: 6 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 13 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (ID: 009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH**

**NOTE: RICHMOND IS FILING AND WRITING IN THE PLACE OF LEAD AUROR GRANGER. THIS IS THE SECOND INCIDENT REPORT FILED BY D. RICHMOND.**

_VI._

They all are in the infirmary again. Both of her Aurors—Tom and Joshua—are not awake. They don't wake up until three days later. It is odd that during those days, not a single student has walked out of bed and into a painting.

She has tried to get all the paintings removed, but Professor Sprout only told her that a large majority of the paintings were under the Permanent Sticking Charm. It would be useless to try to get them off the walls unless she wanted to blast away old paintings.

Hermione decides not to. A lot of them are ancient history and part of Hogwarts' own history. Besides, it would be impossible to get them all. Even with the help of her team and the Aurors patrolling various points in the castle.

The night all three of them wake up, she sits in the teachers' lounge and think. Why would students be manipulated to walk into paintings? She strolls over to the library and begins to dig into a heavy book about strange and magical occurrences. In the distance, she hears the clock strike eight, but she continues to read on.

_VII._

Tom never really liked Park. But he is the only person who is helping her hold back Allyson Goodwill from walking off to a mysterious place of ominous bodings. This time, conjuring ropes does not a single thing. She somehow is able to walk through them, and Tom is tempted to see if any of the darker curses would do something.

Grabbing each shoulder, the Aurors grunt and fight against sleep. Tom flicks his wand and points to her shoe, casting a Sticking Charm.

Her sneakers stick to the ground, but her feet simply shakes them off.

Tom groan. Of course. He probably has to stick her own feet.

Park, on the other hand, is trying some immobilization spells to no degree of success. It's almost as if Goodwill has somehow gained a sort of magical immunity.

It's horrible.

 _Four and twenty ladies fair_  
Were playing at the chess,  
Out then came fair Janet,  
As green as ony glass.

He ignores the song and flicks his wrist. Various objects fly in front of Goodwill and obstruct her way. She desperately paws at the hospital bed leaning against the door and tries to push it off the doorway. Humming under her breath, she pulls off the bedsheets.

"How long would this hold her?" wonders Park. He then casts a complex locking spell on the door and lets out a sigh of pure relief.

"Slughorn found us three days ago at ten. She has to be held back by at least one and a half hour," answers Tom, narrowing his eyes. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't stop trying to prevent her from running." He raises his wand at her back and attempts to transform her into something else. A stool, in fact.

The spell doesn't do anything on her.

Frowning, Tom changes his aim and transfigures a lamp into a chess set without any problems. It is definitely the girl, he realizes with relief.

 _Out spak ani auld grey-headed knight,_  
Lay owre the castle wa,  
And says, Alas, fair Janet,  
For thee we'll be blam'd a'.

"What is that music?" Park turns his head, wand raised up high again. "It seems familiar, don't you think?"

Tom gives a brief glance at the thrashing girl.

 _'Had your tongue, you auld grey knight_  
Some ill dead may ye die!  
Father my bairn on whom I will,  
I'll father nane on thee.'

Tom concedes, "It does. It does sound familiar."

 _Out then spak her father dear,_  
He spak baith thick and milde;  
'And ever alas, sweet Janet,' he says,  
'I think ye gae wi childe.'

"What time is it?"

Tom finds the clock on the nightstand. He moves over for a closer view and tells him, "We have five minutes left. Until Goodwill stops."

The music, hauntingly and tauntingly so, continues to sing.

 _'If my lord were an earthly knight,_  
As he 's an elfish grey,  
I wad na gie my ain true-love  
For nae lord that ye hae.'

 _Janet has kilted her green kirtle_  
A little aboon her knee,  
And she has snooded her yellow hair  
A little aboon her bree,  
And she's away to Carterhaugh,  
As fast as she can hie.

Someone holds their breath. Then they sing one last stanza before the clock hits ten.

 _When she came to Carterhaugh,_  
Tom Line was at the well,  
And there she faund his steed standing,  
But away was himsell.

Goodwill stops convulsing and falls down to the ground in a dead faint. The lulling spell—with the intention of forcing everyone to sleep—breaks. She is back to an ordinary sleep, and Tom and Park has survived to the very end without falling asleep.

_VIII._

**INCIDENT REPORT #5: ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING (?) OF ALLYSON GOODWILL**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: ALLYSON GOODWILL, A SECOND YEAR IN HUFFLEPUFF, LEFT THE HOSPITAL WING AT EIGHT THIRTY AT NIGHT. SHE WAS FOLLOWED BY AURORS JOSHUA PARK (ID: 069349-JP) AND THOMAS SMITH (ID: 093382-TS). THEY MANAGED TO OBSTRUCT HER WAY FROM SLIPPING INTO A PAINTING. PARK NOTED AND MENTIONED OF SOME STRANGE MUSIC (A BALLAD?) SINGING FROM WHAT SEEMS TO BE A FLOOR ABOVE. GOODWILL IS CURRENTLY IN A MAGICAL COMA.**

**REPORT FILED BY: D. RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR)**

**DATE: 9 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 13 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (ID: 009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH**

**NOTE: RICHMOND IS FILING AND WRITING IN THE PLACE OF LEAD AUROR GRANGER. THIS IS THE THIRD INCIDENT REPORT FILED BY D. RICHMOND.**

_IX._

Goodwill sleeps for three days without stopping.

After a first year girl caught a look at her in the hospital bed, it is now all over the schools that Allyson Goodwill has managed to survive the attempt not just once but twice. At this rate, Goodwill could become a celebrity star.

Hermione frowns. What exactly have these kidnappers focus on the same girl? Not just once but twice. Wouldn't it be more logical for them to go after someone else once the attempt fails? But no. It looks as if they are going to kidnap her again. For the third time.

She received an owl from Clarkton who has found nothing about the disappeared students so far. But she is only halfway through the list. Something may come up.

There is nothing special about the month of February historically. Valentine's Day probably wouldn't be anything special, but it is a special day for the students to play numerous pranks on their peers.

Imbolc has passed. . .

But it has nothing to do with missing children. Samhain might, but it is in October. Not February. So what is the trigger to all of this? The paintings, the sleeping spell, the children? Who does this sort of things?

And the music. . .

Tom has mentioned it sounded familiar. He is supposedly trying to recall why it sounds familiar, but right now, he has not a single clue. She doesn't bother trying to read his mind. She has already tried Park's, and all she is able to see is static. There's a real fat chance that Tom would even allow her to attack his mind. She doubts any student is involved or behind the missing children. It's too elaborate, and the skill levels required to get under Riddle's and Park's tough magical defenses are high. It has to be. . .

Powerful magic.

Or. . .

Hermione taps her chin. Couldn't it also be something that it is forgotten? Forgotten by Hogwarts? Forgotten magic? Almost like. . . old magic?

She shakes her head and writes a note to herself. It is simply another thing to look up.

_X._

_She hadna pu'd a double rose,_  
A rose but only twae,  
Till up then started young Tom Line,  
Says, Lady, thou 'a pu na mae.

He frowns when he hears the music again. Park and Chase are supposed to be watching Goodwill while he tries to figure out the mysterious song that keeps on plaguing his mind. The ballad the painting is singing out. He could hear it even in the library, but it doesn't seem like Madam Pince hears a thing. Instead, Madam Pince is glaring at him with her beaked nose and suspicious eyes. Even after flashing his Auror badge at her and gaining the approval of Granger, she still doesn't think he is allowed to be in the library after curfew.

 _Why pu's thou the rose, Janet,_  
Out owr yon groves sae green,  
And a' to kill your bonny babe,  
That we gat us between?

Blinking quickly and shaking the urge to sleep, he begins to write down the words on a spare piece of parchment from his book bag. Already forgetting some words, he tries to quickly scribble what he knows. Madam Pince thankfully is snoring over her desk.

He dabs his quill for ink. _That we got us between?_

Think, think, think. What else did the song say?

 _'O tell me, tell me, Tom,' she says,_  
'For's sake who died on tree,  
If eer ye were in holy chapel,  
Or christendom did see.'

As it sings, he continues writing. " _'Oh tell me, tell me, Tom,' she says. Forsake (?) who died on tree, if here you were in holy chapel, or Christendom did see_."

His eyelids slowly begin to droop.

 _'Roxburgh he was my Grandfather_  
Took me with him to bide,  
And ance it fell upon a day  
That wae did me betide.

His hand begins to move again. " _Roxburgh, he was my Grandfather. Took me with him to bide. And once it fell upon a day, that way did me betide._ " Unknowingly, Tom's head begins to move towards. Almost in resting position.

 _'Ance it fell upon a day,_  
A cauld day and a snell,  
When we were frae the hunting come,  
That from my horse I fell.

He can't even write a letter before his hand falls to his side and he slips down to rest on the floor. In the back of his mind, he hears the bell tower strike ten.

Sleep. . .

But the temptation recedes.

Slowly, just slowly, awareness comes back to him.

Why is he on the ground?

Music, right?

But he can't remember the words anymore. The song was—still is, even in his faded memories—still beautiful. He sits back onto the desk and sees Madam Pince shaking herself awake all of the sudden. She quickly moves her head back and forth and then turns her infamous glare on him.

Tom looks back at what he has written so far.

The first sentence strikes him.

" _'Oh tell me, tell me, Tom,' she says. Forsake (?) who died on tree, if here you were in holy chapel, or Christendom did see_."

Tom. The song called out for a Tom.

Why this song? And what does it mean?

And why does the song sound so familiar to his ears even though the lyrics are not? Didn't he hear this song a long, long time ago? As if it is only in a dream.

_XI._

**INCIDENT REPORT #6: DISAPPEARANCE/KIDNAPPING OF ALLYSON GOODWILL**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: ALLYSON GOODWILL, A SECOND YEAR IN HUFFLEPUFF, ATTEMPTED TO LEAVE THE HOSPITAL WING AT EIGHT THIRTY AT NIGHT. SHE WAS FOLLOWED BY AURORS JOSHUA PARK (ID: 069349-JP) AND HEATHER CHASE (ID: 083433-HC). THEY MANAGED TO BRIEFLY OBSTRUCT HER WAY FROM SLIPPING INTO A PAINTING. THEN GOODWILL HAS WENT THROUGH THE OBJECTS ACTING AS OBSTRUCTION AS IF SHE WAS ONLY A GHOST. CHASE AND PARK MANAGED TO SEE HER SLIP INTO A PAINTING OF A CLEARING UNDERGOING SUNSET. MEANWHILE, THOMAS SMITH (ID: 093382-TS) HAD MANAGED TO CAPTURE SOME LYRICS TO THE BALLAD HE WAS HEARING.**

**UNKNOWN BALLAD: "'OH, TELL ME, TELL ME, TOM,' SHE SAYS. FORSAKE (?) WHO DIED ON TREE, IF HERE (?) YOU WERE IN HOLY CHAPEL, OR CHRISTENDOM DID SEE. ROXBURGH, HE WAS MY GRANDFATHER. TOOK ME WITH HIM TO BIDE. AND ONCE IT FELL UPON A DAY, THAT WAY DID ME BETIDE."**

**REPORT FILED BY: D. RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR)**

**DATE: 12 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 13 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: KIDNAPPING OF UNDERAGE WIZARD**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (ID: 009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH**

**NOTE: RICHMOND IS FILING AND WRITING IN THE PLACE OF LEAD AUROR GRANGER. THIS IS THE FOURTH INCIDENT REPORT FILED BY D. RICHMOND. D. RICHMOND HAS KINDLY ASKED LEAD AUROR GRANGER TO STOP SENDING HIM REPORTS FOR HIM TO WRITE, BUT LEAD AUROR GRANGER REPLIED THAT AUROR D. RICHMOND HAS FAILED TO PROPERLY WRITE MOST OF THE REPORTS IN THE LAST TWO CASES AND THAT SHE REQUIRED HIM TO KEEP PRACTICING UNTIL HE GETS IT RIGHT.**

_XII._

_'The Queen of Fairies she came by,_  
Took me wi her to dwell,  
Evn where she has a pleasant land  
For those that in it dwell,  
But at the end o seven years,  
They pay their teind to hell.

 _The night it is gude Halloween,_  
The fairie folk do ride,  
And they that wad their true-love win,  
At Miles Cross they maun bide.'

 _But how shall I thee ken, Thomas,_  
Or how shall I thee knaw,  
Amang a pack o uncouth knights  
The like I never saw?'

_XIII._

**INCIDENT REPORT #7: DISAPPEARANCE/KIDNAPPING OF JAYSON CHUNG**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: JAYSON CHUNG, A SECOND YEAR IN GRIFFYNDOR, LEFT THE COMMON ROOM AT EIGHT THIRTY SHARP. HE WAS FOLLOWED BY LEAD AUROR GRANGER (ID: 009753-HG). SHE WAS UNABLE TO PREVENT CHUNG FROM WALKING INTO THE FAT LADY'S PORTRAIT, WHO HAS SOMEHOW DISAPPEARED FROM THE PAINTING. IN THE LIBRARY, THOMAS SMITH (ID: 093382-TS) HAD ONCE AGAIN MANAGED TO CAPTURE SOME LYRICS TO THE BALLAD HE WAS HEARING.**

**UNKNOWN BALLAD: "BUT HOW SHALL I THEE (YOU) KNEW (?), THOMAS, FOR HOW SHALL I THEE (YOU) KNOW, AMOUNG A PACK OF UNCOUTH KNIGHTS, THE LIKE I NEVER SAW?"**

**REPORT FILED BY: D. RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR)**

**DATE: 13 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 12 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: KIDNAPPING OF UNDERAGE WIZARD**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (ID: 009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH**

**NOTE: RICHMOND IS FILING AND WRITING IN THE PLACE OF LEAD AUROR GRANGER. THIS IS THE FIFTH INCIDENT REPORT FILED BY D. RICHMOND. D. RICHMOND MAINTAINS THAT HE WOULD HAVE DONE EVERY PAPERWORK AND CASE CORRECTLY IF IT WAS ONLY IN THE FORMAT SIMILAR TO THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT PATROLS' STANDARD PAPERWORK. GRANGER HAS NO REPLY.**

_XIV._

He passes by the Room of Requirement by chance. Okay, maybe it isn't that much of a stroke of chance, because he has purposely engineered to pass by the room. Walking by, he asks for a bathroom in his head. It is completely unsurprising to see a bathroom suddenly appear to his right. He enters it, and then closes his eyes. Placing his hands at the edge of the sink, he concentrates as hard as he can.

Then he—with every single bit of want and desire and strength and will and need—says, "I need the devil's punishment on me to be broken. I need it to be broken. I need to be free again."

He could feel the Room of Requirement's magic surging to shatter it into bits. He can feel it draw up power—a horrifyingly large reservoir of power and magic. It keeps building and building and building and building until a high pitch squeal is released. Tom winces, covering his ears. The magic is all aimed at him, and his eyes widen when he sees the bathroom beginning to decay into greyish dust. The room squeezes, and acting on his instincts, Tom rushes out.

He is just in time to see the Room of Requirement's door completely disappear.

Somewhat softly, he asks, "I need a broomstick."

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Nice try," says the horrible creature Tom really doesn't want to see. Thrasher has a champagne glass and winks at him. "That has to be one of the most spectacular failures I have ever seen, Tom. Truly. One of the most spectacular. Clever of you to use the Room of Requirement to break the devil's punishment on you."

Tom makes no motion to back away. He eyes nervously at Thrasher, though. What sort of punishment will Thrasher come up now?

Thrasher cheerfully tells him, "You should know something, Tom. No one—not even the devil—can even change a prisoner's punishment. Nor could they even break it. The contract, the punishment, is so strong that it will be impossible for you to break it. Or use a combination of magic to break it. Or even to use the Room of Requirement, which has an impressive amount of magic it has accumulated over the centuries, I must add, to break the sentence. The Room of Requirement will probably need years for it to come back."

The words echo in Tom's mind.

_No one—not even the devil—can even change a prisoner's punishment. Nor could they even break it._

He wants to take it as a personal challenge. Defy it. Defy it as he has defied everything else. Defy physics, defy laws, defy everything. Become the master himself.

But he is patient.

He has time. But a limited amount of it. But he has time.

Thrasher runs his eyes over Tom's body thoughtfully. "Now, as for your punishment. Oh, yes. I think I'm going to enjoy this one. It is going to be. . . delicious."

Tom has no idea what would be so delicious, because in that moment, a bunch of second years with the Head Boy in the lead comes walking down the corridor and Thrasher has disappeared from sight. All Tom knows is that he must also watch out for the devil's servant.

He has a feeling that he is not going to like this punishment.

Why else would Thrasher make him wait?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I cheated by stealing a riddle off the internet. I'm lazy that way. :P

_I._

The next morning, Tom wakes up from his sleeping quarters and immediately paddles over to the mirror in the bathroom. Not a single change on his face. Nor his hairstyle. Or his body. Or any weird sort of feelings in odd places. Nervously, he ties his Slytherin tie around his neck and waits for a long moment. It doesn’t strangle him in a sort of way Thrasher enjoys.

So not that.

What has he changed?

He walks out of the common room and attends his first class of Potions. Professor Slughorn remarks on his average potion with only a passing interest. It’s odd to not try his best in potions, and it’s even stranger that Slughorn doesn’t give him a long conversation.

His mind wanders off to Hermione Granger. He wonders if she has found anything about the ballad’s lyrics and its words. Would she be in the library? Or would she be in class and teaching a bunch of first years? He wonders if she would be lecturing with her fullest attention or would she have her mind stuck in the case while her lithe body goes through the motion?

“This is the most perfect Amortentia I’ve ever seen,” says Slughorn, interrupting Tom’s thoughts. “Oh. I have never seen anything quite like this before. The potency is astounding. What exactly did you add, Miss Pierce?”

The Ravenclaw glows under Slughorn’s praises. “Well, I increased the amount. . .”

Yes. Nothing he has already known.

He smells a whiff of Amortentia and smells. . . blood, rage, parchment, the oil of books, and. . . something suspicious soft. Something kind, something he can’t place. He doesn’t quite know its name.

__ And this reft house is that the which he built,   
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,   
Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,   
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.   
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade?   
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.   
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,   
Yet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd;   
And aye beside her stalks her amorous knight!   
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,   
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,   
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;   
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon   
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!

He sudden realizes that he was the one speaking poetry. Slughorn and the rest of the class stares agape at him. Professor Slughorn is the first to recover. “Have a penchant for poetry, Mr. . . ?” Slughorn tilts his head in confusion. “It was. . . I don’t believe I actually know your name.”

“Thomas. Ontario,” he tells him. Out of his mouth, he unwillingly adds, “That poem is called ‘On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country’ and is written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

Slughorn nods. “Impressive memory, Mr. Ontario.”

Tom stares off in the distance. Reciting poetry?

That must be the punishment.

It gets even worse.

In Charms, he starts off practicing little charms that he has mastered very well over fifty or so years ago. A girl has somehow asked him about whether a flower would look better on her hair or over her blouse, and he has burst into another recitation.

_She walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that’s best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes;_

_Thus mellowed to that tender light_

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

_One shade the more, one ray the less,_

_Had half impaired the nameless grace_

_Which waves in every raven tress,_

_Or softly lightens o’er her face;_

_Where thoughts serenely sweet express,_

_How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

_And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_

_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

_But tell of days in goodness spent,_

_A mind at peace with all below,_

_A heart whose love is innocent!_

At the class’s sudden attention on him, Tom adds, “’She Walks in Beauty’ by Lord Byron.” He glances away as everyone burst into applause at his sudden recitation.

In Arithmancy, he is already dreading the moment he begins to speak. The moment some seventh year Hufflepuff asks a girl he likes out on a date, he begins to prat on and on and on again. No one is surprised, and for once, he draws the attention of everyone’s eyes.

_A glimpse through an interstice caught,_

_Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,_

_Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,_

_A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,_

_There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word._

“’A Glimpse’ by Walt Whitman,” he finishes.

By the time he gets to Defense Against the Dark Arts, he is dreading the moment he will speak in poetry instead of conversational language. It is his last class, and everyone has heard about the wonderful curse that has taken ahold of him. Nearly everyone is watching him, and those who don’t know about it will find their eyes drawn to him. Sooner or later. He is thankful that Thrasher’s curse makes him recite the poems correctly and without any flaws like misspoken words.

From the very touch of Granger’s gaze on his face, he knows that he is done for.

Almost smirking, Granger innocently asks, “So, Thomas. What do you think of Valentine’s Day so far?” She tilts her head, jutting out her chin.

He opens his mouth.

_Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea_

_But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,_

_How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,_

_Whose action is no stronger than a flower?_

_O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out_

_Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,_

_When rocks impregnable are not so stout,_

_Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?_

_O fearful meditation! where, alack,_

_Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?_

_Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?_

_Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?_

_O, none, unless this miracle have might,_

_That in black ink my love may still shine bright._

“Sonnet 65 by William Shakespeare,” he says, his face feeling a little warm. Once again, everyone’s mouth is agape and stunned by the impromptu recitation.

Even Hermione looks shocked—as if she can’t quite believe it herself.

The applause starts, and Tom ignores the sudden pats on his back. Someone says, “Professor Granger, what do you think of Thomas’ recitation?”

He slinks a little lower in his chair. As if he actually wants to be analyzed.

Hermione gives him a devious look. “I can’t quite tell. I think I was unprepared for that. Mr. Ontario? Would you like to recite something different?”

She is playing him.

_Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:_

_What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?_

_No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—_

_All mine was thine before thou hadst this more._

_Then if for my love thou my love receivest,_

_I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;_

_But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest_

_By wilful taste of what thyself refusest._

_I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,_

_Although thou steal thee all my poverty;_

_And yet love knows it is a greater grief_

_To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury._

_Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,_

_Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes._

“Sonnet 40. Also by William Shakespeare,” he says. He is definitely going to kill Thrasher. He can already think of putting him under the—

Granger suddenly winks at him—a pure look of evil on her face. He could recognize it himself. He has seen it many times in his reflection. It is really scathing, and he has a sudden feeling that he will need some ice. No, not just some. A lot.

She taps her chin. “I don’t know. I think I need to hear it one more time.”

_Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?_

_Thou art more lovely and more temperate:_

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_

_And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;_

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,_

_And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;_

_And every fair from fair sometime declines,_

_By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;_

_But thy eternal summer shall not fade,_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;_

_Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:_

_So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee._

He takes a breath. “Sonnet 18. Also by William Shakespeare.”

A suddenly coy expression appears on her face, and she smiles like the smuggest cat he has ever seen. A smug cat cornering a poor, poor, and very dead rat. “I don’t suppose you can recite one more poem, Mr. Ontario? For the sake of Valentine’s Day?”

He might as well die now. It would be merciful. Because Dark Lords don’t recite poetry nor do they obey the words of another.

Unsurprisingly, he begins to speak.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove._

_O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

_It is the star to every wand'ring bark,_

_Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

_Within his bending sickle's compass come;_

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

_If this be error and upon me prov'd,_

_I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd._

“Sonnet 116. Also by William Shakespeare.” He does not miss the irony of him speaking about love and the eternal nature of it. It does not amuse him—not a single bit. He doubts there is a Dark wizard alive who is reciting poetry. Especially from William Shakespeare.

At last, Hermione nods. “Very good recitation, Mr. Ontario. You have a very good memory. Do you have a profound love of poems or are you simply reciting all of this in the sake of Valentine’s Day?” She arches an eyebrow casually.

Tom grits his teeth. “I was cursed.”

She tilts her head. “A shame. I’m rather fond of Sonnet 116.” Then she finally—mercifully, thank Merlin—moves onto her planned lecture.

Not paying a single ounce of attention, Tom can only think of some ice—and perhaps retreating to some form of isolation. A permanent isolation where no one could ever curse him or bother him anymore. But it’s unlikely. Maybe he can cast Memory Charms instead?

_II._

She is in the corridors at nine when she first hears something very unusual. She always feels fatigue at this time—and she knows it is because of that mass sleeping spell that is over the castle. But she already has drank four cups of coffee and tea in the last three hours. Before the spell has taken ahold of the castle, she was more hyper than a ten year old on sugar. Now. . . She feels normal. Perfectly normal—with a slight urge to find a bed.

Moving on the stairs, she sees a student moving.

She shouts, “Stop!”

The student in pajamas doesn’t even flinch or notice her.

 _'The first company that passes by,_  
Say na, and let them gae;  
The next company that passes by,  
Say na, and do right sae;  
The third comptny that passes by,  
Then I'll be ane o thae.

She tries to stun the student. The spell merely zooms through the student, almost if she is a ghost. Hermione’s stomach drops, and she hurries right by the student’s side. She wraps her arms around the tiny preteen and whispers, “Oh, Merlin’s beard. Please don’t walk into that painting.”

From seemingly nowhere, her agents—Tom and Joshua—suddenly throw themselves in the student’s path. They push back, probably giving her a dozen bruises. All futile attempts.

 _Some ride upon a black, lady,_  
And some ride on a brown,  
But I ride on a milk-white steed,  
And ay nearest the town :  
Because I was an earthly knight  
They gae me that renown.

 _'My right hand will be glovd, lady,_  
My left hand will be bare,  
And thae's the tokens I gie thee,  
Nae doubt I will be there.

The girl reaches a feet within the glowing painting.

Suddenly, all three Aurors are thrown away from the girl by a pulsating force. Hermione grunts, landing on the stairs with a bang. The painting is the very source of the magic, and its hypnotic nature sends the girl inside of the painting. Every single last bit of her disappears within the lights.

Then the painting sings. One more stanza.

 _'Then hie thee to the milk-white_  
And pu me quickly down,  
Cast thy green kirtle owr me,  
And keep me frae the rain.

Hermione pants, rubbing her head from where she has hit her head against the stairs. She looks around at Tom and Joshua and breathes a sigh of relief. They don’t look harmed—nor are they sleeping. The words begin to quickly fade away from her head until all she could remember is the tune of it. It has a particular melody that reminds her of a song she has heard a long, long time ago. Perhaps long back in her childhood.

But it can’t be. Could it?

She has to look it up first. In the library.

_III._

**INCIDENT REPORT #8: DISAPPEARANCE/KIDNAPPING OF EILEEN SERIA**

**LOCATION: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**REPORT SUMMARY: EILEEN SERIA, A SECOND YEAR IN RAVENCLAW, LEFT THE COMMON ROOM AT EIGHT THIRTY SHARP. SHE WAS FOLLOWED BY AUROR THOMAS SMITH (ID: 093382-TS) AND JOSHUA PARK (ID: 069349-JP). THEY WERE UNABLE TO PREVENT SERIA FROM WALKING INTO KING ARTHUR’S PORTRAIT. KING ARTHUR WAS NOT IN THE PAINTING. IN THE LIBRARY, THOMAS SMITH AND LEAD AUROR HERMIONE GRANGER (ID: 009753-HG) HAD MANAGED TO CAPTURE SOME LYRICS OF THE MYSTERIOUS BALLAD.**

**UNKNOWN BALLAD: “AND KEEP ME FROM THE RAIN.”**

**REPORT FILED BY: D. RICHMOND (ID: 083432-DR)**

**DATE: 13 FEBRUARY 2005**

**CHILD AGE: 13 YEARS OLD**

**TYPE OF CRIME: KIDNAPPING OF UNDERAGE WIZARD**

**DEPARTMENT: AUROR OFFICE**

**CASE TEAM: GRANGER TEAM (ID: 009753-HG)**

**CASE LEVEL PRIORITY: HIGH**

**NOTE: RICHMOND IS FILING AND WRITING IN THE PLACE OF LEAD AUROR GRANGER. THIS IS THE SIXTH INCIDENT REPORT FILED BY D. RICHMOND. LEAD AUROR GRANGER HAS COMMENTED THAT RICHMOND’S PAPERWORK SKILLS HAS GREATLY IMPROVED SINCE THE LAST CASE. D. RICHMOND SARCASTICALLY THANKS HER AND ASKS HER TO FILE THE CASE HERSELF FOR ONCE. HIS HAND IS GROWING TIRED, AND HE NEEDS TIME TO HELP MONICA CLARKTON TO SEARCH UP HOGWARTS’ LIST OF MISSING STUDENTS THROUGHOUT ITS HISTORY. IN THE HISTORY BOOKS, THERE APPEARS TO BE FIVE OTHER CASES SIMILAR TO THIS ONE, AND MONICA CLARKTON WILL SEND THOSE FILES TO HERMIONE GRANGER ONCE SHE GATHERS ALL INFORMATION.**

_III._

Even pulling out the memory to rehear the ballad lyrics doesn’t work. All the words come out all weird, and she is sure that nouns aren’t supposed to be used as adjectives. The files Monica has sent over makes more sense.

In the history of Hogwarts, there was a time back in the eleventh century when eight kids went missing. They were all under fifteen years old, and the exact circumstances of their disappearances were strange. The investigators were bewildered, but when the students stopped disappearing, the push to close Hogwarts slowly died away and Hogwarts continued on with business as usual.

The memories faded away as the years zoomed by.

So what is the connection? Other than the disappearing kids?

In the previous group of cases, there are no mentions of any music or paintings. But an investigator back then noted the strangeness of how no one—not a single soul—has saw or managed to hear the children being kidnapped.

It is strange.

But they made up a wild list of potential suspects, and Hermione is smart enough to realize that all of them are complete bogus—and dead. It would be impossible for them to actually come back and somehow begin kidnapping young children all over again.

But if it is the same exact case. . .?

She wonders, leaning back in her chair. If the case she has right now is exactly the same as the one back in the eleventh century, then the kidnappers have to be long-lived. Eternal, even.

Immortal. That is the word she is looking for.

Immortal. They have to be.

Unless. . . It could be made up of a secret linage dedicated to eradicate young witches and wizards with seemingly no connection to one another other than their youthfulness. Although Slytherin’s monster is dead, the heir of Slytherin is not. But it can’t be Riddle.

Farfetched, she knows.

But the answer has to be something. It can’t be simply nothing.

The ballad itself is much harder to look for. She tries reading old ballads and singing along with them, but none of them doesn’t sound  _right_  in her head. She puts them to the tune the ballad was in, but none of the lyrics seem to match that eternal and ancient voice of that woman singing. She shakes her head.

She can’t do this alone.

Enough is enough.

She’ll ask for help.

_IV._

“You called?” Tom raises his eyebrow at the ballooned hair. Granger is looking worse to wear, and her hair is simply awful. He resists the urge to point his wand at her and cast a few certain spells that would straighten her up.

“Stay professional, Tom,” she scolds. “It’s about the missing children.”

Tom rolls his eyes and sits across from her. He is unsurprised to find her with tired eyes, puffy cheeks, and a sort of lack of awareness to the world. “What makes you think I care about the missing children? You’re the one who is a bleeding heart, Granger.”

She mouths to herself, something he can’t hear.

Nevertheless, he continues to stare at her. “Why did you call me? I’m not your lackey.”

There, she gives a little smile. “According to the Auror Office, you are.”

He grits his teeth. Damn hierarchy.

“Tell me what you remember.” A pause. “If you can’t do that, then at least, find those children. You are good at finding things, right?”

This is the first time they truly have talked about the case. Face to face. Without any audience, without anyone but them listening.

Silence.

As if expecting his no response, she picks up her book and begins to read again. Tom looks around the library ceiling and the bookshelves and the walls. His eyes peruse over the books stacked all around the Lead Auror.  _Medieval Ballads, Songs About Scotland, Ballads About Love,_  several differing editions of _Hogwarts: A History, Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them_. . .

There is even more he can’t see.

He can’t deny it. It does remind him. . . of himself. When he was looking for the secrets his ancestors hid within the walls of this castle. When he was looking for the Chamber of Secrets. He can remember those sleepless nights of searching and searching for an answer that he knows is right in front of him, that he must grasp as soon as possible.

“There was a girl,” he says.

She freezes, her hand in the air. She hasn’t moved onto the next page—not yet.

“Her name was. . .” He frowns. He knows it. It is somewhere in his memories, but he can’t quite grasp her name. “It started with a J.”

“And?” Hermione prompts.

“She lived on a land. With her grandfather. There was a man. . . But I don’t think he was a man. She ran into him one day, and she. . .” He furrows his eyebrows. “She told him that the land belonged to her grandfather.”

“What was the story you’ve been listening to?”

Tom stares off into the distance. Finally, he answers, “It’s a love story.”

When the clock rings nine, the voices start up again. The lights of the candles are flickering low, and Hermione Granger is awake and alert.

A serene, smug woman sing.

Tom’s hand curls around his wand. It is smug, as if she holds all of the power over his head. He hasn’t faced an opponent like her in a long time except for the devil himself, and it would be a pleasure—to crush her under his foot.

 _'They'll turn me in thy arms, lady,_  
An adder and a snake;  
But hold me fast, let me na gae,  
To be your warldly mate.

Hermione’s quill scribbles fast. She even mouths what she hears. “They’ll turn me in your arms, lady. An adder and a snake. But hold me fast, let me not go? To be your worldly mate.”

He shushes her. “I need to hear.”

 _'They'll turn me in your arms, lady,_  
A grey greyhound to girn;  
But hald me fast, let me na gae,  
The father o your bairn.

She doesn’t speak this time. But she continues writing.

Tom listens—almost in anticipation. He needs to hear how this story ends, and a part of him is sure that he knows the ending. But he can’t remember it—not for the life of him.

 _They'll turn me in your arms, lady,_  
A red het gad o iron;  
Then hand me fast, and be na feard,  
I'll do to you nae harm.

“Turning,” he mutters. “Transformation. But by whom?”

 _'They'll turn me in your arms, lady,_  
A mother-naked man;  
Cast your green kirtle owr me,  
To keep me frae the rain.

Hermione’s quill slows.

“And a way to save him,” he realizes. “He tells her how to save him.”

 _'First dip me in a stand o milk,_  
And then a stand o water;  
Haud me fast, let me na gae,  
I'll be your bairnie's father.'

“In milk. In water. Hold him fast and don’t let him go,” he summarizes. He knows that he has heard a similar tale to this before. It isn’t word for word, but it is. . .

 _Janet has kilted her green kirtle_  
A little aboon her knee,  
And she has snooded her yellow hair  
A little aboon her bree,  
And she is on to Miles Cross,  
As fast as she can hie.

The girl.

She plans to save him. . .

 _The first company that passd by,_  
She said na, and let them gae;  
The next company that passed by,  
She said na, and did right sae;  
The third company that passed by,  
Then he was ane o thae.

She waits until he is there. . .

 _She hied her to the milk-white steed,_  
And pu'd him quickly down;  
She cast her green kirtle owr him,  
To keep him frae the rain  
Then she did all was ordered her,  
And sae recovered him

 

She held him down. . .

He changed from animal to animal. . .

And she saved him. . .

Tom begins to see the stories blur. The story he heard in the orphanage is a far more romantic version of it, but the two stories are the same nevertheless. Same characters. Same plot. Same story. Same elements. And the same enemy.

As if confirming his thoughts, the next stanza comes.

 _Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,_  
Out o a brush o broom:  
"Them that hae gotten young Tom Line  
Hae got a stately groom.'

He freezes. There she is. The enemy.

 _Out then spak the Queen o Fairies,_  
Out o a bush of rye:  
that has gotten young Tom Line  
the best knight in my company.

She has lost her best knight. . .

 _'Had I kend, Thomas,' she says,_  
A lady wad hae borrowd thee,  
I wad has taen out thy twa grey een,  
Put in twa een o tree.

. . . to a girl named Janet. . .

 _'Had I but kend, Thomas,' she says,_  
I Before I came frae hame,  
I had taen out that heart o flesh,  
Put in a heart o stane.'

. . . and regretted not putting Tam Lin—or Thomas or Tom Line, or whatever versions of his name is out there and being used—in stone.

She, being the Queen of Fairies.

The music stops.

At the same time, the two of them say, “Fairies.”

The fairies took the children.

_V._

Fairies. Immortal. They would have been able to kidnap the children back then and would be able to kidnap the children now. Hermione remembers reading about their unusual powers—which has not been researched in depth. Everything fits.

Her head is now clearer, as if some spell upon her head has broken. Fairies. And the ballad is specifically the “Ballad of Tam Lin.” She can easily recall it. It’s a poem she read a long time ago in the simpler times.

The story comes back to her. So smoothly, as if her brain doesn’t have a problem at all.

Her mouth moves. She says, “Once upon a time, there was a girl.”

Tom beckons her to keep going.

Recalling, Hermione continues, “She was out in the field, picking flowers. A man appeared before her and asked her why she has come to take the flower. She said it was her father’s land. When she came back home, she ended up with child.”

Riddle raises his eyebrow. “So?”

“Eventually, she returned to Tam Lin and to the field where it all begins. She picked a flower, and Tam Lin showed up again. Tam Lin revealed that he was once a man and gave her instructions, because he was afraid of going to hell as a sacrifice,” she summarizes, picturing the days of her spending the summer inside the library. “When she saw him riding with his company, the girl pulled him down from his white horse. She held him as he turned into various forms.”

A strangely thoughtful look appears on Tom’s face.

She has no clue to what she should make of it.

“He finally turns back into a human.” A somewhat decisive pause as Tom deliberates. His voice suddenly becomes silky and all purrs. “Naked.” Is it her or does he actually lean closer to her?

She shakily breathes in. She repeats, “Naked.” She finishes it up without missing a beat. “She hides him, and the Queen of the Fairies was upset. But she let Tam Lin go.”

He nods. “The end.”

“Fairies,” she whispers. Of all the creatures that has to take the children, it just has to be fairies. They are the most mysterious magical creatures in the Wizarding World by far. The exact nature of them are unknown, but there are some weaknesses.

“They hate iron. Or anything metallic. They especially hate Muggle objects,” Tom states in a manner-of-fact way. He is back to pure business—all professional and not a single ounce of emotion, false or real. “We only have a day left before the eighth child will be taken. It’s probably their pattern.”

She silently agrees. But she can’t help but listen to the ballad over and over again.

The fairies strangely added variations. Like. . .

Tom Line is for Tam Lin.

Thomas is for Tam?

And they chose an unusual dialect.

But most importantly, why did they connect use the name variant of Tom Line? And used Thomas? It seems too purposeful to be natural.

She stands up and pass by several large shelves of books. Then she stops in front of a thick black book in the Restricted Section that she has only read once for a bit of light reading back in her second year with the help of a duplicated slip of Lockhart’s signature. She pulls it down, and on the spine, it reads,  _The Art of Summoning Fairies._

It’s classified as mild Dark Arts.

In Hermione’s opinion, it isn’t Dark Arts at all. However, the fairies are creatures of mysterious origins—which can prove to be very, very Dark in nature. Summoning them doesn’t require blood sacrifice, virgin sacrifice, or anything of that magnitude. Dealing with fairies. . .

It is an entirely different story.

She flips through the book to find the specific ritual. There are a lot of things she is going to need if she wants to see them before eight thirty and another child disappears.

_VI._

Near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Hermione steps over a salt and metal line. Two other Aurors—Riddle and Chase—are there. Hit Wizards are hiding in various places—that is not limited to Hagrid’s hut. It is a shame Hagrid isn’t at Hogwarts but instead on a vacation with a certain headmistress of a certain magical school. He may actually know about fairies. Magical and dangerous creatures seem to be his forte when it comes to Hagrid.

Actually, he might not just know about fairies.

He might have actually summoned them. She wouldn’t put it passed Hagrid.

The fairies, tiny and ethereal, hover around the circle. They stand surround the three Aurors until one of them sets down on the ground. She stands, stretching and stretching until she is approximately the exact same size of a young girl and as poised as a doll.

She examines the circle she can’t enter. Raising her dainty nose to the sky, she huffs, “That is unnecessary. Tom, Heather, and Hermione.” She nods at every single Auror, her bare feet just skimming the outer ring of protection.

Tom. . .

Instead of Thomas.

Is that deliberate?

“Who are you?” Hermione asks, her hand next to her wand holster. She narrows her eyes at the glowing fairy, who moves gracefully so she is as close as possible to her.

“Elaine,” she answers. Her brown hair curls around her arm and then unravels, as if it has a life of its own. “But not my true name. Elaine of Avalon is one of my most dear friends. Hermione Jean Granger, you have a lot of questions and a thirst to seek answers. Curiosity drives the most curious down dark paths. I see that you have already taken a taste of it.”

“What have you done to the children? The missing children?” asks Heather, leaning forward. She tightens her robes around her body, her hand conveniently moving closer and closer to her own wand.

“The children? Frozen forevermore in time, my dears.” A pause. “Heather Chase. You have the ambition to go above and beyond your station. The greed of men is infinite, and the fall of men is inevitable. There is no exception except for the reality in your daydreams. Which there is an absence of it.”

Tom stays quiet. Eerily quiet.

But nevertheless, the fairy stands in front of him. “You, prisoner of the demons of the underworld. Thomas. . . But not quite Thomas, aren’t you? For a man who has sought to remain eternal in a limited universe, you have failed spectacularly.” She only gives him a long, long look. Then oddly, she adds, “No one can break the devil’s punishment. His word is law.”

“The children,” Hermione says, clearing her throat. “Where are they?”

She chuckles. “Two riddles.” Her bright eyes mischievously dart at Tom, clearly knowing his secret. “Two riddles. If you could solve them, then you will have the children back. All of them. The two riddles can only be solved by. . . Thomas.”

All eyes turn to him.

He nods, his face unreadable.

_VII._

_Useless for one, but absolute bliss to two._

_The small boy gets it for Free_

_The young man has to lie or work for it._

_The old man has to buy it._

_It's a baby's right,_

_The lover's privilege,_

_The hypocrite's mask._

_To the young girl, faith;_

_To the married woman, hope;_

_What am I?_

_VIII._

Elaine plants her hands into her lap, her eyes gleaming brightly. “Well, there’s no hurry. I’ll tell you the second riddle. You’ll like this one.”

Hermione opens her mouth, looking at Tom. An answer in her eyes, a word on her tongue. She knows it, yes. But she will not give the answer to him.

_IX._

_I can't be bought,_

_but I can be stolen with a glance._

_I'm worthless to one,_

_but priceless to two._

X.

His face, perfectly composed. Tom looks away from Elaine, and he says, “The answer to the second riddle is love. The first answer is a kiss.”

Elaine applauses. “Very well done. Consider these answers to be the foundations of your life, Tom.” A pause. “You’ll find all the children safely tucked in their beds. Farewell, my dears.”

She disappears in a warm breeze, misting away.

A very calm, warm  _summer_ breeze. 


End file.
